Kiss the Shadow
by Croik
Summary: A story about Grissom, pre game, and the very complicated relationship he forms with everyone's favorite skirt-toting captain (and when I say complicated, I'm not talking about poker-buddies, either)
1. Default Chapter

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Prologue

He stood against the dull moonlight like a man made out of stone. There was something almost hypnotizing about watching him--his back, perfectly straight like the stiff spine of a perched owl, his eyes sweeping and sharp. The absence of light in the curves of his face made his features appear deeply grooved, carved permanently in an expression of infinite patience. He should have been too young to bear so wise a countenance. He should have felt the eagerness of the men huddled about, the anxiety of their quarry, the restless interest of their starry audience. Standing apart from his comrades, however, he appeared perfectly at ease, though intense, gloved fingers closed around the handle of the sharpened rapier.

Grissom tightened his own grip on his sword, savoring some of that courage for himself. The rest he gained from the steady presence of his elder brother, who stood always at his side. He would be forever grateful for that steady comfort. As a boy merely in his sixteenth year of life he was still a somewhat awkward youth, wary of the world but trusting in those that offered him guidance. One such symbol of that trust rested around his neck, providing a pleasant weight upon his heart: a Rood, passed down through his mother's family. He fingered it idly out of habit.

East Vallport was quiet that evening. The festivities of the Summer Faire had ended long ago, and only a few stray drunkards littered the black-painted streets. Grissom's company lay in wait hidden within a narrow alleyway--seven men, including himself and the Owl-man, awaiting a signal from their companions who lay in the slumbering inn across the cobblestone road. Among them Grissom knew only his brother by name. This was his first official act as a member of the Holy Order, and he was therefore unfamiliar with those that served alongside him. One of the elder men, however, he recognized as a friend of his brother's, whose name escaped his memory at present. But then, the identity of his comrades was not his concern. All his attention and imagination was focused on those who held the swords he would cross with.

A man's scream echoed from the two-story inn that was their target. Grissom jumped at the sound of it, if only slightly, and stuffed the Rood into his shirtfront where it would not be damaged. A prayer fell over its worn metal as it passed his lips. Already the other men were in motion, drawing swords and stretching cramped muscles. The Owl at last found his limbs worthy of movement, and turned to view their preparations. Once satisfied that all were ready, he raised his hand in a gesture for silence. Then he was gone, gliding swiftly across the town street, his boots making only the slightest of noises on the stones.

Grissom followed instantly in his captain's wake, glancing back only once to note the progress of his brother. Duane was just behind him, his face as always solid and unreadable. But he was confident, and so Grissom was confident. The seven men moved quietly to the back entrance of the inn and entered, paying close attention to the movements of men's voices within the building. Without a word the captain motioned which of them would stay behind to guard the exit. Grissom, his brother, and his bother's acquaintance would not be among them. All four men slipped inside, weapons ready. 

The inn, by now, was in an uproar. All around could be heard the echoes of men's voices, rising in thunderous curses and shrill cries. Almost immediately upon entering they came upon a section of the dispute--several armored men surrounded and butchered a pair of fleeing youths. Blood splattered upon the captain's boots but he paid no notice, stepping over the bodies and continuing further inside. Grissom paused a moment, watching as the assailants murmured a quick apology over the slain and moved on. He, too, moved on. He followed the captain through the twisting halls, past several similar scenes, toward the western corner of the establishment.

Duane was muttering under his breath. His younger brother could not hear him, as he was too caught up in the air of it all. He had expected chaos, frenzy, fear--he felt none of these things. The armored men moved calmly and dutifully through the different rooms, carrying out their justice without hesitation. They were the very hands of God delivering punishment. Grissom swelled at the thought, empowered by it. His Lord had descended from his heavenly grove to sweep through the misguided and soiled, and Grissom and his comrades were paying witness to his pure punishment. He thought almost that he could feel the awesome presence beside him, tugging on his boots, hurrying him to meet his own deliverance. For in the work of God he received his own repentance.

The captain threw open the door to the westernmost chamber with a resounding impact of wood, revealing several men in leather cloaks. They were attempting to escape through a small trapdoor in the room's corner. All froze at the unexpected intrusion; looks of horror twisted across their repugnant faces. They were arrangements of muscles and flesh such as Grissom had never seen--the fear of death scarred them. It was a disgusting sight, and Grissom pitied them.

The captain swept into the room without introduction or warning, and soon after the two elder men joined him, cutting the men down. In the confusion that followed a pair of cloaked men fled for the door. Grissom intercepted them. His hands were tight about his weapon, sweat already beading on his pale brow. The men stopped, watching him. They did not hold the agony of terror in their visages; their faces were cut of the same stone as The Owl. This caused Grissom to pause, as his eyes landed on the younger of the two--a boy, no older than himself. Though he was heavily disguised within folds of leather he was clearly flawless; his eyes were wide and round, his skin the unblemished pearl of a woman's. 

For a moment the two young boys stared each other down, judging. Then Grissom's sword moved. He hadn't intended the action--he was taken by it. In a flurry of movement the elder of the cloaked men revealed a blade to halt the swinging arc. He shouted something then, in a language Grissom did not recognize, and the sword was wrenched free of his grasp and thrown away. Startled and bewildered the young knight retreated several steps, gawking.

By then the captain and his company had finished off what remained of the their quarry, and started upon the last pair. Seeing their advance the beautiful boy fled, abandoning his companion. The captain immediately gave chase. Grissom stared, still attempting to comprehend how his weapon had been stolen from him so effortlessly. At last he retrieved the steel, just as his brother and friend succeeded in striking the cloaked man down. His body seemed almost to shrink once the life was stolen from it, huddled there in a bleeding mass on the wooden floor. Grissom was entranced by the look upon his already paling face--the man would greet the afterlife with a smile.

The struggle was coming to an end. The once deafening swirl of shouts and sobs seemed to silence all at once, leaving only piteous moans which were also quickly erased from the tainted air. Grissom emerged from the room slowly, breathing it with hesitant lungs. He checked the Rood clasped close to his heart and whispered anther short prayer--he had not expected so quick and smooth a mission. Though he had had little part in the success, that detail was far from his mind. He was only thankful to have their duty fulfilled.

Duane led the trio through the inn, checking the success of the other groups they came across. It appeared that their forces had suffered no loss of life and only a handful with minor injuries. God had been merciful indeed. Grissom released a sigh, and congratulated the commander on his success. There would be cause for celebration later.

It was then that Grissom noticed the absence of their captain. He hardly had time to mention it, however, as in the next moment a dark-skinned slave girl came running to meet the commander with ill news. 

They followed the servant girl out of the inn and down the street several blocks, struggling in their armor to meet her urgent pace. The commander remained behind but sent for a doctor that would catch up with them when possible. Grissom followed their guide with only slight apprehension--it was, after all, the captain they were going to find. He didn't believe that anyone could harm a man such as that. That stiff spine would never crumble.

They had entered a wealthier area of Vallport, now; the houses towered over the road with their spires and wide glass windows. Grissom paid them little notice as they at last approached the scene the servant girl had intended. To the surprise and fright of the trio of men, their captain lay stretched out on the dusty stones, surrounded by a creeping stain of red life fluid. Several of the local residences had crowded around; the ring of their bodies muffled the sounds of pain coming from his raw throat. Grissom felt a surge of what might have been panic overtake him. Quickly he pushed his way through the sparse crowd to kneel at his captain's side. He grew faint upon viewing the injury: a dagger had been sheathed firmly in the knight's heart.

Duane and his friend joined Grissom, amazed by the damage--the dagger had somehow cleaved through the captain's armor and into his flesh. The man's face was contorted, anguishing, and through his crimson lips short, harsh breaths were drawn. Grissom could only stare. He knew that the hand of God lay upon the man's brow, where the beads of sweet collected to reflect the grieving moon. Surely not even the physician, or the Cardinal himself could rectify such a wound. He crossed himself, and sat back, where upon his gaze caught that of a young girl in white night robes, performing a similar gesture. She was kneeling at the head of the fallen soldier, her hands already dampened with his blood, her pale eyes wide. Her lips were moving in whispered prayers.

They knew it was hopeless. Yet Duane and his comrade held the captain's limbs still when he attempted to thrash, and murmured words of encouragement to soothe his tormented visage. The two girls cleaned his face with their hands as they had no cloth to offer, and Grissom began to recite the Last Rites. The captain struggled when he heard the words, denying them, his back arching and arms thrashing. All around the audience backed away, fearful of becoming the target of some dying man's curse. 

Grissom held on to the man's right arm while his brother the left. He hadn't expected a man in this state to hold so much strength left in him--by all rights he should have been dead already. His armor was soiled, his breath hoarse and eyes wild. He should have been dead….

He wanted to remove the dagger.

Grissom shook his head. Removing the weapon would only increase the bleeding--they would not be able to remove his armor in time to stifle the wound. And even so, to think of bandaging the injury was madness. His heart had been pierced. He was going to die. He should have already been dead.

The blood-armored body began to tremble, then shake, violently, attempting to retain the grip on its weary soul a moment longer. Those weak-stomached citizens turned away so as not to see, stopped their ears to save themselves from hearing the death moans. Grissom had no such luxury. He did not leave his position at the man's side, holding him firm as he continued his prayer. He hoped that God would quickly end this pain--he should have been long since dead by now.

But he wasn't.

Why wasn't he dying? These words spoke through the eyes of his brother.

The little girl was still praying as well. She was praying for deliverance and mercy. Her wide eyes glistened, mourning with the moon, tainting her white cheeks with marks of despair. He should have been dead by now, to save them this pain.

Grissom's gaze turned to the face of the Owl. He did not wear the smile of the slain man in the inn, but the terror of those that looked upon death and regretted suddenly the failures in their life. No man should wear a face such as that. It made him want to pity the captain, who lay dying there in the street, surrounded by men and woman whose breath still reeked of an evening of mirth. He didn't want to pity him.

Grissom reached out suddenly, wrapping his fingers securely around the handle of the dagger impaled in his leader's breast. He pulled, his face unmoved as the blade made slow progress in retracting from its flesh-sheath. The captain's eyes widened and his mouth gaped silently. All around eyes were fastened on the young knight in his bold effort, but he paid no heed. He only wanted to remove the weapon that had caused this suffering. His arm trembled, not with exertion but from the feeling of withdrawing the dagger--it slid with agonizing slowness until finally pulling free.

Grissom's own force sent him tumbling backwards. At the same time, also, did the captain cease his struggling. Both men slumped to the ground, breathless and wheezing. The air stood still, waiting to be joined by a last breath, a whispered promise or other such trifle thing men release when their body has failed. But a moment later the breeze stirred to life again, denied of this. 

The captain was not yet dead.

Grissom pushed himself back into a sitting position, still tightly clutching the dagger. He was staring, as everyone else about was, at the captain who lie panting, his eyes now closed and limbs peacefully immobile. With every new breath of cool night air his lungs grew stronger, expelling clots of blood in sharp coughs. The color was returning to his bleached cheeks. 

It was then that the doctor arrived with his assistants. They surrounded the captain and began to remove the plates of chest armor, mumbling to each other in questioning tones how it was that the man was still alive. Their inquiries spread to the witnesses as bandages and medicines were prepared. Those closest to the injured could not speak nor barely breathe themselves, to answer or celebrate or give praises to their beloved God. They could only stare at the Owl who had clawed from the brink of death, feeling the heavy weight of his blood on their own pale and trembling skin.

RomeoGuildenstern3424

Grissom Vedivier2616

DuaneVedivier3727

Samantha Wilmott2414

Balv Tieger4030

Neesa Daw 2919

Sydney Losstarot2515

Agnew - Lamb

Bartlett - bright, glorious

Blunt - bright and fair

Daw - beloved

Darcy - dark

Dove - dove

Wilmott - beloved heart


	2. Casual Irony

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 1: Casual Irony

Grissom Vedivier shifted uncomfortably in the stiff formal armor. Sweat streamed down the back of his neck within the thick woolen cowl, and his arms were all but numb from the strain of holding his sword at attention for hours. He stifled a weary sigh. The evening sun stun in his westerly eyes, sharpening its gleam against the intricately carved and polished armory of the dozens of soldiers. They stood in rows like stone saints amidst the Grand Cathedral's towering walls. Among their ranks Grissom usually felt a swell of pride, the thrill of upcoming justice--now he only ached to return to his quarters.

"Chin up, lad," a deep voice from behind him murmured. "They've all but finished."

Grissom pursed his lips and forced his chin higher. His gaze drifted down the line of soldiers and clergymen, nobles and curious commoners, to the hastily constructed outdoor chapel. Upon a stage stood the Cardinal himself, giving his last blessings to the ornately clad bride and groom--the Cardinal's own cousin and soon-to-be sister in law. Only such an occasion short of a crusade could account for the entire regiment of the Crimson Blades being paraded in so extravagant a fashion. Grissom recollected his strength in holding his blade aloft. Perhaps to the happy couple a blazing wedding had struck their fancy, but he was far from enjoying the strain.

The same man chuckled sympathetically. "Save yourself. We'll have our turns later, you'll see. I've been looking forward to this." Balv Tieger, a solidly built knight many years Grissom's senior, chuckled to himself. He was a hulking man, with a hard-carved, crooked face that knew only the brightest of grins or the most intimidating scowls. As his brother's long time companion, Grissom had known the burly commander longer than his own mother.

"I'll take your word for it, Sir Tieger."

"You'll see, you'll see. Ah--look at them, now." A heavy sigh escaped his lips. Upon the stage, bride and groom sealed their union with a delicate kiss. "Inspiring, isn't it?"

"Naturally," Grissom replied simply, hiding his relief at the end of the ceremony. He and his comrades withdrew their blades as man and wife passed, saluting as a symbol of their congratulations. It wasn't that he shared no warmth of feeling for the couple--he was merely too caught up in his own discomfort at the moment to care. 

The knights were dismissed soon after, though with the encouragement that they would join in the post-ceremony celebrations. Naturally, such advice was unnecessary. The wedding of the Cardinal's cousin had provided even the most godless of men excuse to flock to the Holy Capital of Icili, to join in the festivities. Taverns were packed to overflowing, each provided with extra wine barrels by the church as a symbol of thanks for the blessings bestowed on the joined couple. Men and women of every possible rank and status were out in force, lounging in the streets or inns, sharing drinks and meals, dancing carelessly even when music was not present.

Most noticeable among the masses were the city's sworn protectors, the Crimson Blades, hailed for centuries as God's chosen soldiers. Following the wedding presentation each had returned briefly to shed their armor and join in groups to attend the different activities. Despite his fatigue, Grissom was no exception. He quickly changed out of the stiff ornamental dress and met his brother and fellows at a familiar tavern: the Lovely Dove, long since accustomed to its sword-bearing patrons. Dozens of their comrades had arrived long before, as was proven by their raucous behavior and slurred speech. Grissom viewed them distastefully before taking his seat in their usual corner table.

Duane, Grissom's elder brother by eleven years, ordered drinks--only fine wine on an occasion such as this. To his right sat the senior of the group, Balv Tieger. Next was Neesa Daw, the dark-skinned Wuryn woman, whose pale hair rivaled that of her aged companion. Though the only female member of their motley group, she had never done less than held her own among them. Lastly was Albred York, merely a year older than Grissom, with ruddy chestnut hair and wide, ever-eager green eyes. The recent addition of a beard to his complexion still managed to puzzle his friends when their minds were sluggish, as indeed it made him appear years beyond his age.

As soon as the drinks arrived Albred lifted his glass in a toast. "To the happy newlyweds, whoever they are!" he declared, earning the cheers from his friends. They drank together and laughed, grateful that finally their services had concluded. Several similar toasts sprang up around them, as their knightly companions added their own appreciation.

"Ah, but what a ceremony," Albred continued exaggeratedly. "Might you have seen the bride's face as they departed? God makes no greater joy, I'll warrant. Perhaps I, too, shall take a wife..."

Neesa choked ungracefully on her drink, and the rest of his companions laughed. "You? A husband?" Duane repeated mockingly. "I should see the day!"

"Listen to him," Grissom advised with a cocked eyebrow. "My brother is well-versed in marital woes."

Duane cast his brethren a curious glance, earning more laughter from the others. "You may mock me now," he said pointedly, "but who among you returns every night to a lady in your bed, to love you when you are in need and to comfort you in illness? You'll not get that from any local brothel, I should say." He fixed his eye specifically on Tieger.

"He speaks well," Neesa laughed as Tieger sputtered indignantly on a response. "But then, I don't think married life suits either of our tastes, Tieger."

The friends conversed for long hours in this way, sharing the wine bottles and laughing in merriment. Several other members of the order joined and took leave of them as they saw fit. Grissom drank in moderation, remembering episodes of days past that were of considerable embarrassment for him. At some point his interest wandered from the drunken dialogues of his friends, taking in the scene of lazy chaos spreading through the tavern. _Such disorder among men of God,_ he thought, smiling faintly. 

Grissom's attention was taken briefly to another corner of the common room, where a group of soldiers like himself were gathered. A man was approaching--the leader of the Crimson Blades himself, Romeo Guildenstern, moving with precision despite his own subtle intoxication. As Grissom watched, the commander seated himself among the young men and was promptly offered a drink, which was gratefully accepted. Immediately afterwards the behavior of the soldiers sobered considerably. 

Grissom chuckled faintly to himself at the irony he was witnessing. The soldiers, upon meeting their captain, were struggling to maintain an attentive and respectful attitude; Guildenstern wasn't interested in their formalities, laughing with all the rambunctious spirit of his men. He was attempting to be one of them. Grissom, however, with his sobriety and righteous spirit, fancied himself the sensible of his own comrades--comrades mirrored in the actions of the opposite table. He knew it to be his responsibility to watch out for his friends, and therefore would not partake of their indulgences himself. As if he were a captain, prepared to care for or discipline his peers should there be the need. 

__

So the Commander wishes to be a soldier, and the soldier in turn wishes to lead.... He turned back to his friends. "It appears that the commander himself is not entirely unaffected by celebration."

The group looked for themselves, though none made comment to his discovered irony. "He appears a bit unsteady himself, doesn't he?" Albred commented wryly.

"There's nothing for it," Tieger muttered into his glass. "This is a _wedding_ celebration, after all."

He cocked a curious eye. "And what has that to do with our leader's unusually indulgent behavior?"

"Have you drunk you mind away?" Duane snorted irritably. He had never been a graceful drunk. "I'll remind you, our Sir Guildenstern also knows the 'woes of marital life,' so to speak."

Albred and Neesa returned his gaze with confusion, and so Grissom took it upon himself to explain, as he'd heard the story from his--sober--brother on several occasions; though he himself had not recalled until its mentioning. "Many years previous, the good captain was betrothed to a nobleman's daughter, the Lady Allia," he said, only loud enough for his friends to hear. "But just when it seemed they were happiest, the engagement was abruptly and inexplicably cancelled. The good lady abandoned her love and fled Icili to join her cousins many leagues away, and Sir Guildenstern has yet to fill her absence." He leaned back in his chair. "A quiet matter, dealt with carefully. I'm not surprised you'd not heard."

His friends exchanged dubious glances. "I can hardly imagine," Neesa retorted smoothly, "that such a thing occurred."

"Are you accusing my brother of lying?" Duane sneered over the top of his glass.

"No one's accusing anyone, friend," Tieger quickly intervened. "You're just drunk, 's all. Have another." He poured his companion another drink, then one for himself. That matter concluded, he turned his gaze in the direction of their captain once more. "Ah, but the poor lad. He always looked better with a lady on his arm."

Grissom followed his friend's eyes, watching as Guildenstern took his leave of the corner table. A wry smile quirked his lips. "Indeed." 

The night passed all too quickly as far as those involved were concerned. Soon enough the taverns began to usher their patrons out into the already crowded streets, and gradually the townsfolk made their way home. Some never made it that far, and were content to rest their wine-weary bodies in alleyways or street corners, awaiting a sober friend. Those of the Crimson Blades were only slightly more successful in returning to their quarters, beneath the moon-cast shadows of the Cathedral. Grissom was especially instrumental in aiding the usually respected men to their beds. As the most clearheaded of his comrades, he took it upon himself to guide each safely to warm and welcoming bed sheets before partaking of the same comforts. Sleep was no stranger to many a soldier that night.

Grissom awoke slowly to the gleam of morning light against his eyelids. It was not a welcomed intrusion; though his intoxication from the night before had been relatively light, it was still enough to sour his mood with a throbbing skull. Groaning softly he rubbed his weary eyes and slid out of bed. 

The day was still quite young, as shown by the horizontal light piercing his windows. He stumbled forward and pulled the curtains closed to give his sight a rest. From there he paused, surveying the disorderly state of his small quarters. This bothered him. Even if he had returned at a late hour under mild intoxication, Grissom despised sloth and disorder most vehemently. As he had time—being the morn after a near holiday—he slipped into a pair of soft leather trousers and set upon the mess. Having replaced all his things, he sought a brief breakfast—some bread he'd saved, and a bit of cold soup—cleaned his face, and finished dressing casually. He doubted that anyone on the grounds would be yet rested enough to condemn him for less than perfect attire.

Grissom wandered out of the knights' quarters, and made his way to the chapel for a morning prayer. Thus refreshed, his contented feet took him about the gardens. In the ten years he'd served as a Knight of the Cross, he never failed to appreciate the beauty of this place. He saw God's hand in every bud and blossom, every upturned, dew-glazed leave. God's gift to him, to them all. His hand slid lazily over a puckering rose, granting it a kiss to his fingertips. And smiling he moved on, wondering how long he should wait before rousing his peers. 

Grissom's meandering at last brought him to the farthest edge of the cathedral gardens—a maze, almost, of tall rose bushes and towering lilies, and smaller pansies and poppies, each stretching eagerly to meet the fresh sun. He rarely had time to travel so deep into this floral paradise, with his duties of late. Wondering if perhaps there was a section of garden he had yet to see, he traveled on, being careful not to tread on the smaller plants.

He had not gone far when he came upon something unexpected—a form not of flora's design, but a man, resting alongside a curved stone bench at the garden's edge. He was clad in soft leather and clasps of bronze, no shoes or boots to speak of, sitting with legs folded and head bowed. Grissom stood still, as he feared the man asleep and hoped not to wake him. Though he had chosen a splendid bedchamber in which to rest his mind and body, it was hardly appropriate, and the commander wondered if perhaps he should stir the poor chap. It certainly didn't look comfortable, in any case.

In the end, Grissom's pondering was unnecessary. The man slowly lifted his head, revealing the long, etched face he knew well—a pair of bright blue eyes and thin-pressed lips that belonged to none other than his master, Romeo Guildenstern. 

Grissom bowed his head in respect, offering a greeting. "Forgive me, if I disturbed you."

Guildenstern waved his hand to dispel any apologies. "Think nothing of it, Commander. I was merely absorbed in a morning prayer." He reached behind the bench, retrieving a leather pouch. "Won't you join me? You can bless this wine for me."

Grissom smiled wryly and did as per his suggestion, seating himself in the soft earthen-grass. "I thought you had drunk your fill at the celebrations last night," he commented, hoping his leader would not think him too bold.

Thankfully, the elder knight chuckled with good humor. "Ah, so you were at the Lovely Dove, were you?"

"Finest wine to be had."

"That it is, that it is." 

Grissom accepted the offered wine flask and said a brief prayer over the offering. Once finished he returned the drink, his curiosity perked. "If you don't mind my saying so, Sir," he said pleasantly, "why did you never earn your cloth, in which to perform this task yourself?" The Crimson Blades were, after all, a holy order made of the Cardinal's own hand. Many of the officers, especially those of higher rank, were first suggested to attend to the clergy, earning their title as a preacher of the Word of their Lord. Grissom himself had acquired his title several years previous. As it was his mother's wish that he pursue the priest's calm mind and his father's that he take up the sword, he had readily applied himself to both with the most eager of devotions.

Guildenstern waved a hand dismissively. "I am not so articulate," he replied, pausing to take a sip of the wine. "My faith is in my heart and in my steel, good Father, and not in my tongue." 

"The good ladies will be disappointed to hear you say so," Grissom casually remarked. 

Guildenstern laughed heartily. "A battle scar will win just as much infatuation as a pretty word, Father. Or so I have learned."

"Ah, to think then, that I have wasted my breath all this time," he rejoined, "when one of my captain's beatings would suffice."

The men laughed together, their lifted voices the only sounds in the stillness of the morning garden. Guildenstern appeared quite amused by the boldness of his commander. "Speaking of which, what thought you of the ceremony?" he asked easily. "You've not yet gone through the rites yourself, if I remember correctly."

Grissom smirked. "Nay, good sir, I've yet to grant a lady such honor. With my duties of late, I've been a bit too occupied to attend a woman proper. And as I've not yet met the charming Lady Guildenstern, I assume you are of the same dilemma...?" He wondered briefly if this was not proper territory for him, remembering the stories passed the night before.

But the captain took no offense to his words, simply replying, "Such a lady, if I am to meet her, will have to be of great patience." He drank again from his wine before passing the offering around. "I am a knight, and a leader of men in combat. It is necessary that sacrifices on my part be made."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully. There was little he knew about his captain's true personal life, but in combat he was precise and unwavering. Guildenstern had taken command of the Blades half a decade ago, the youngest to ever hold the position--he was their strength and their pride, and they his willing hands. It was a bit odd for Grissom, sitting with him this way, chatting about such trivial and commonplace things as if he were simply another officer of his regiment. His body well enough remembered the punishments dealt by his fierce captain, the sores and aches after his grueling training. The guidance of Sir Romeo Guildenstern was not easily taken or forgotten. And yet here he was, as if they were no more than a pair of captains enjoying a morning chat. He wondered at what his commander was thinking.

Romeo Guildenstern, a man of no title save his rank, no wealth despite a respected family, yet unwed despite these things. There would be no telling the concerns a man such as this would leave behind in escaping to the garden during the morning's early hours.

"I must admit I was a bit surprised to find you here, Sir," Grissom said, indulging himself in a bit more curious small talk. If anything, he would have an interesting story to tell when he met with his companions later in the day. To think that he would be sharing a drink with a commanding officer in this way...and delicious wine at that, he soon discovered.

"I imagine the sight of me will not be welcomed among the barracks after the night of a feast." Guildenstern leaned back against the bench, the very picture of ease. To see him so relaxed strangely calmed his companion as well. "They've deserved a late morning's rest, and I wouldn't want to intrude." His lips quirked with an expression of amusement Grissom had never seen on him before--there was something odd about it. "Commanding officers often have that affect."

Grissom considered this a moment. "I hope you are not offended by my presence here, sir."

"Of course not. I could use the company." He traced his thumb absently along the arch of his bare foot. "Actually, I was recently pondering the very question you put to me a moment ago, Father Grissom," he admitted, meeting his subordinate's gaze in an open, very frank manner. "You are an honest and strong-willed fighter, and I would greatly appreciate a friendly ear."

The younger man was somewhat startled by this request, but he made no show if it, shrewdly nodding his head. "Of course, sir. Of what matter are we speaking?"

"Of faith, Sir Grissom." Guildenstern lifted his head slightly, his eyes taking in a slow, though unobtrusive view of his fellow. Grissom did his best to look attentive and trustworthy, like a child before his father, about to be entrusted with a secret of heavy importance. "When did you first know you wanted to live serving God and his prophet?"

Grissom frowned slightly, caught off guard by the nature of the question. The leader of the Crimson Blades, speaking so openly of matters of faith...it was unnerving. But Guildenstern's expression held no ill ease, no uncertainty. As if he were merely inquiring about the weather, or what kind of wine Grissom preferred. He had no idea that this was a matter of great significance to a preacher and soldier such as himself, so deeply devoted to his religion.

Or, did he, and was now testing...? Gripped by sudden uncertainty, Grissom decided at last that he could do nothing but offer truth. "'Twas the will of my parents, God bless them." He smiled faintly as he remembered the Rood necklace hidden beneath his tunic, pressed to his chest. "They have long since joined our Lord, and so I am honored to carry out their wishes."

Guildenstern regarded him silently a moment, making him slightly nervous. "Ah, so you had little choice in the matter," he surmised over his flask.

The younger knight was quick to defend himself. "At first, good sir, but I have always hoped for so fulfilling a duty as this." And before he knew it, he was continuing into his personal history, speaking of a matter of great import to him. "I knew I had made the right choice when I received the authority of my rank. Within the halls of the cathedral, the Cardinal blessed us with no more than a hand on our brows. But when he touched me...." Grissom felt himself swelling a bit with pride at the retelling of the story. "...When he touched me, I felt a tremor pass through me, like nothing I'd ever felt before. As if the Holy Spirit Himself had descended upon me...."

Grissom trailed off, glancing to his master, hoping that he would not be met with a quaint and indulging grin. He was surprised, and rather pleased, to see that the captain's eye was fixed upon him with considerable interest. "Forgive me for speaking so frankly," he went on with greater confidence. "I'm sure you must think me foolish, but that brief experience has driven me forward ever since." In truth he did not at all think himself foolish; there was merely something in the man's trained eye that led his words to seek approval.

Guildenstern, sipping quietly on his wine, appeared intrigued. "You are lucky, then, to have such memories to draw upon," he murmured, strangely distracted. "But if you were called so strongly to the clergy, why continue your training to become a knight?"

"That too, was the will of my parents, to follow in the steps of my father, and my elder brother." Grissom paused, and collected his thoughts a moment before continuing. "But this was not my only motivation, Sir Guildenstern. In many ways, I believe it was the strength of my faith that drove me away from taking up the cloth."

"Explain." The knight offered his flask once more.

Grissom accepted, but was too caught up in his brief speech to drink from it. "I would, if words could do my mind justice. I hope you will accept a pale comparison." His mind spiraled back, trying to remember what he had once tried to make clear to his brother, with little success. "I knew, you see, that I would always devote myself to my Lord. However, for some time I was unsure of how best this could be accomplished. As a Priest I may have been able to speak out against injustice and sin, but...but truly, sir, sometimes I can't help but wonder if my words would be enough. There are dozens of men that can speak well of idealism and faith, but a great few that would be willing to die for it. I want to be one of those rare men." He felt himself straightening, speaking faster than a moment before. "There are so many good intentions, smothered by the wicked and twisted souls that manipulate them. If we are to truly change these soiled times, there must be a change in the way we deliver judgment. Deliverance can be found easily on the blade of a sword."

Grissom stopped, realizing that his speech was becoming warped, and his meaning unclear. "What I mean, sir," he said, trying to sound even and reserved despite the clear gleam in his eyes, "Is that I believe my skills will be put to better use routing out the world's evil, rather than singing psalms to frightened people which are already unable to change their own destiny."

"To kill the wolves," Guildenstern mused, "rather than fatten the sheep." A smile slid gradually to the corners of his mouth, showing an expression of great approval. "I find it...refreshing to hear you say that, Father Grissom. There are few of us who are able to view the world in such a way. I thank you for your honesty."

Grissom kept himself from grinning openly, at last helping himself to a sip of wine. "There is no need. I am, after all, merely fulfilling my duty to you, sir."

"Nonetheless." Guildenstern pushed to his feet, and his subordinate quickly followed suit, returning the drink. "In any case, I dare not infringe upon your leisure time further; the Cardinal awaits."

"Of course," he replied with a respectful bow. "Thank you, sir, for the wine."

"You're quite welcomed. It was good to speak with you." Guildenstern nodded his acknowledgement and started out of the garden, his bare feet leaving small imprints on the yet dew-laden grass.

Grissom watched the captain leave, and breathed a sigh once he was out of sight. He'd feared that his forthright response to the inquiries might have been seen as some insubordination against the clergy, or worse, interpreted as a fanatic's bloodlust. But Guildenstern had interpreted his intentions as the justice he thought of it as, a great comfort to him. 

"Perhaps he was testing me," Grissom murmured, seating himself on the worn bench. "To see what I would say." He brushed his hand lazily over an exceptionally tall lily. "What kind of man is he?" he wondered aloud. Well, that was simple enough--he was a man who killed the wolves. The thought made the young knight chuckle, and with a shake of his head he returned to the barracks in search of his peers.

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	3. To Be Stained--one

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 2: To Be Stained - Part One

Grissom managed not to cringe as the impact tremor ran up his arm. With his feet planted firmly in the dusty earthen soil he held his ground, gloved hands straining in their grip, eyes fierce and bright as he awaited his opponent's next maneuver. Already his shoulder was throbbing from a previously delivered blow. Still he remained steady and alert, sensitive to the captain's every movement and breath, judging. This particular sparring partner was known for striking without warning, as had certainly been the case when Grissom failed to defend the attack on his left side. He could not afford to be so careless again.

The Violet Patch, as it had been affectionately labeled, was relatively quiet that evening. The flat, dry land that served as training grounds for the Crimson Blades was occupied by a mere handful of armored men, and only a pair of them was engaged in any activity at the moment. A month had passed since the wedding of the Cardinal's cousin, finding the regiment in the first week of October, a time of great importance to them. Only during the onset of fall and spring were the ranks officially opened, giving lower-ranking officers the opportunity to test for promotion, and those of higher ranks a chance to defend their titles. Already one of the Ordained Commanders, only their leader surpassed Grissom in rank, leaving him no option for ascension. There was, however, the--very slight--chance that were fault discovered in his skills, he would be demoted once more.

Grissom wasn't worried about that unlikely possibility now. His only concern was his captain's steel, moving in sharp arcs, stabbing forward like a viper's fangs. He parried and blocked each strike effectively, content to play the defensive in this match. He had little chance of besting Romeo Guildenstern in matters of combat.

Around them in loose formation stood the other blessed commander's of the Order, paying witness to the performed test while nursing bruised, and sometimes shredded, flesh. Each had already performed before their captain, and now waited only for their comrade to finish that they might all be dismissed. Though Grissom's match was taking considerable time to finish, not one lifted their voice in protest. None were very much thrilled by the prospect of annoying the man that would be passing judgment on them; if Guildenstern was drawing out the fight on purpose, it was his business and none of theirs.

Grissom at last found an opportunity to attack, and struck toward the captain's plated midsection, but Guildenstern had anticipated the maneuver even before its conception. The move was dissolved, and Grissom fell back, panting. "It's a bit unfair, don't you think?" he asked, a smirk on his flushed lips. "That you, sir, have been made to fight all of us in the span of a few hours, one after the other, while each of us come at you fresh and still cannot best you?"

Guildenstern chuckled, only the most faint sign of fatigue present in his face despite the sweat gleaming on his brow. "Perhaps it is. But then, your best weapon is not the sword, is it?"

"No, sir. I would much prefer the familiar grip of a stave." Grissom charged again, if only to be quickly repelled. His shoulder's fiery complaints were distracting him far too much for any reasonable offensive to be properly launched. "Must you insist on a duel of blades?"

"It is the Order's rule, not mine. Perhaps we should end it now." He saluted, and Grissom cursed under his breath, preparing for what was to come. As he'd expected the captain shot forward, a blur of reflected brass. Some unseen technique wrenched the blade from Grissom's hand and sent it spiraling away. Such was the way Guildenstern always ended his matches against this particular captain, as he knew Grissom was uncertain in sword handling. It served as a reminder of this. Next would come the blow that felled him.

This time Grissom couldn't help but cringe in anticipation of the upcoming strike. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the extent of the force behind Guildenstern's heavy punch to his gut. After so many consecutive battles the captain should not have had enough strength left to perform so severe a blow. Grissom's breath was forced violently from him as he was taken off his feet. The ground struck his back and head a moment later, momentarily blinding him with the sharp pain. Though this brief discomfort mended quickly, he still couldn't draw breath. Gradually his body recovered from the strike delivered it. He pushed carefully into a sitting position, rubbing his stomach.

Guildenstern stared down at the felled man, smiling faintly in approval. "Thank you for a good match, Father Grissom," he said, offering his hand. "You faired well."

"I suppose that means my position is safe." Grissom accepted, and was pulled to his feet. He swayed only a moment before reclaiming his balance and then his sword. That accomplished, he bowed to his captain, grinning smartly. "Thank you for your strict discipline, sir."

"Always a pleasure." Guildenstern nodded acknowledgment, and turned stiffly to face the rest of his commanders. They snapped to attention--some better than others, depending on their injuries. "Gentlemen--you are dismissed. My decisions regarding ranks will be announced with all the other divisions, this week's end. Good evening to you all."

"Thank you, sir," the men chimed at once, hiding looks of pain. Satisfied, Guildenstern nodded to them again and then turned, striding evenly away from his soldiers. Grissom watched after him a moment--the man's silhouette against the dying-ash sun was not quite without flaw, testimony to his fatigue. How, then, had he called the strength to fell his last opponent so completely, with such ease?

"Looks like another violet drops a seed," declared a strong voice, and Grissom grunted as he was slapped heartily on his bruised shoulder. The culprit was none other than his brother, Duane. He was grinning slightly, having faired better in this contest than most of his peers. Guildenstern had claimed victory over the older man simply by placing his sword tip against his throat.

"You're lucky," Grissom retorted, the pain making his words sharper than he had intended. All around them the other commanders were departing, helping each other along. "Sir Guildenstern always goes easy on you."

"Courtesy for the elderly, and the experienced. He has nothing to fear of an old soldier like me compromising his authority. You whelps are still learning." Duane smacked his brother affectionately upside the head, as he had done when they were children. "Someday he'll let you fight with your stave. Now come along back--I'll have my woman fix you up."

Grissom followed, though answering, "I'm to meet Albred in town tonight for a drink. His examination is two days away, and he'll not sleep without the booze to calm his mind."

Duane appeared to find this very amusing. "All right, then, if you think you can make it that far. Would you be adverse to some company?"

"Not at all. You are always welcomed, so long as we may insult you while you are drunk." Grissom shot him a dry grin, earning him another slap against his shoulder that almost made him yelp.

"That's what I thought. Let's be off then."

By the time the brothers had changed out of their training uniforms and into more appropriate city attire--soft leather and cotton--the sun had long since completed its descent below the western mountains. In its absence the wind grew anxious and timid, sweeping about the streets and calling out quietly to the treetops. Grissom noted with some uneasiness that that the whispering breeze would not be long without company--boiling, dark clouds lay in wait against the horizon. "The eve may not agree to our planned outing," he mused aloud, still gently rubbing his sore abdomen.

"It shan't rain on us, Brother. The night is too young for that."

Albred awaited them at the crossroads of Gerril and Frues, leaning easily against the closed door of a bakery. "You're late," he chided, strolling up to the two. "I've been here over an hour, waiting on you. Was the match that difficult?" His rounded face suddenly took up a look of anxiety.

"'Twas not bad," Duane said with a shrug. "Grissom, on the other hand...." He moved as if to tap his shoulder again, and Grissom retreated, his face hard. "All right, all right, I'll stop. Where are we off to, then?"

"Somewhere with cheap food and good ale," Albred piped up immediately. "They say Brandyvine is not so unsavory. What think you?"

"Any pub'll do. I'm in no mood to be difficult about it tonight."

Grissom was only half paying attention to them, his gaze still fixed upon what was most likely an approaching storm. He could already see the clouds smearing to earth in the distance. "Whatever you decide," he muttered, smirking, "I suggest we go quickly. The skies are about to burst."

Even as he spoke, the wind's childish mutterings rose suddenly in a howl, sending his loose clothing billowing. He shielded his face, and quickly followed his companions as they started out of the street. "So it would seem," Duane consented. "The Maid's Hand Inn is closest, I do believe. Their wine tastes like sow piss, but the ale is strong."

Grissom's expression twisted in disgust. "Men of God should hold standards when it comes to such things," he muttered. "I may be famished, but I'm not a starved man yet. Think of something else. Perhaps if we follow Frues down to--" 

"Hold on," Albred interrupted suddenly, dragging his friends to a halt. His head was cocked to the wind, like a bloodhound finding a scent. The thought made Grissom smirk, but he didn't comment. "Did you hear that?"

"'Tis only the wind," Duane said irritably. "Now hurry along or we'll catch our death in the rain."

Grissom strained his ears, and after a patient moment was alerted to what must have caused Albred to pause: a human voice, shouting desperately. "I hear it," he murmured, already heading in the direction of the cries. "It's a man--come on." He broke out running suddenly, stirred by the sounds of distress. He could already tell that it was coming from down Gerril Road, a cobblestone street lined mostly with private, middle-class residences. If some trouble was at hand, he felt obligated to lend his assistance if possible.

"Grissom, hold on!" Duane shouted after him, though he, too, was now running to keep up, Albred on his heels. "Don't rush into anything!"

Grissom paid him no heed, following the voice that had now been joined by others. Several dozen meters away a group of townsfolk had gathered just outside one of the lane's taller homes, shifting and restless. He could not make out their words over the shrieking of the wind. He quickened his pace, his booted footsteps unnoticed by the small crowd, and was soon pushing his way through them into the center.

"What goes on here?" Grissom demanded, seizing the gaze of a tall, bearded man. "What was that cry?"

The man stepped aside, revealing to Grissom a young servant boy who sat huddled within the circle of anxious men and woman. He was trembling, wide-eyed and pale, and viewed the sudden appearance of this stranger with some degree of horror. "A servant, from the Wellerune manner," the bearded man explained. "Came burstin' out a moment ago, all mad-like."

"Please, sir," the boy gulped, clutching his knees to his chest. "T-Take these folk away. Take—take'm away from this ungodly place."

By now Duane and Albred had joined the fray, and were doing their best to calm the citizens, all the while casting confused glances at their brethren. Grissom paid them no heed. Slowly, as to not frighten the boy, he bent down on one knee and touched the top of his head. "Peace now, brother," he said in a comforting tone. "My name is Grissom, and I am one of God's loyal servants. Tell me what has happened here to distress you so."

The knight's words struck the young servant, and with a sudden movement he snatched Grissom's tunic and would not let go. "Thank God—thank God you've come," he half sobbed. "A curse is upon our house. The curse of pagans—"

"Here now," Duane said from above, his face stern. He had little tolerance for superstition, and would not be lenient when faced with a man so deprived of sense. "Speak plainly, boy."

But Grissom had already heard enough. He raised his head, staring up at the Wellerune manner with a strange apprehension stirring his innards. Its spires were silhouetted against a coal black heaven, and the wind whistled through its bones like a dying man's sighs—or so his imagination was inclined to believe. "Perhaps the sky truly shall burst," he murmured, untangling the servant boy from his attire and handing him over to a nearby elderly woman. "Fear not," he directed his words to the entire circle as he climbed to his feet. "Whatever has happened, we shall determine the cause. May I trust you, Ma'am, to care for the boy?"

The elderly woman nodded, holding her charge tenderly as if he were her own. "Bless you, sir. God be with you."

Grissom's expression was firm as he nodded. Though the tension in the approaching storm, the anxiety of the townsfolk, and the boy's strained explanation should have put him on his guard, he felt only strength boiling in his breast. God was with him, as surely as the wind that tugged on his limbs, promising His protection. He turned stiffly to his companions, his intentions stated clearly in his eyes. They nodded acknowledgment, and together the three men approached the manner entrance, left carelessly open after the servant's hurried departure. There they hesitated only a moment before entering, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger.

The insides of the manner were no more reassuring than the outsides. It was a relatively large residence, well furnished as far as Grissom could tell in the absence of light. There were no lit candles or lanterns to guide them. Their footsteps, laid upon a backdrop of wind-rattled shutters, were the only sounds to pervade upon the dwelling. Grissom paused there in the foyer, trying to get his bearings and decide where to proceed. "The Wellerune Manner," he murmured, the name striking a familiar chord in him.

Albred cocked his head once more, his bard-like sensitivity in hearing again proving useful. "Upstairs," he said quietly. "There are voices." He looked to Grissom, his face covered by shadows. "You've heard the Wellerune rumors, have you not?"

"I've heard those rumors," Duane grunted. "They say the master has long since been 'tainted'. I don't like the look of this place, nor the smell." He turned in a brief circle, inspecting, and at last stopped in the direction of a small hallway. "Can you not tell? It reeks of blood."

Grissom followed his brother's gaze, and though he did not detect anything in the form of sight or sound, his senses were nonetheless put on end by an unfamiliar aura. "I think you are right, Brother. Let us search out the upper floors—if there are people above, they may be able to explain whatever it is that goes on here. Albred—return to the Cathedral and fetch the captain. The boy spoke of curses, and I'll not take that threat lightly."

Albred glared at him in the dark, slightly affronted. "Why should I? Certainly we could just—"

"Because my brother outranks you in sword and faith," Duane snapped impatiently. "Now go, quickly, and hopefully we'll find there was no need for it." When the man still hesitated he added, "Go on—he can't punish you for following orders."

"I hope you're right," Albred murmured, still clearly dissatisfied. All the same he departed, leaving the brothers to their search.

Duane moved to the bottom of the stairwell, frowning up its length. "They certainly are quiet up there, if there is anyone." His gaze shifted briefly. "You sound very sure of yourself," he remarked. "Sending for the captain, when it may just be a child's prank. I hope for your sake his trip here is not wasted."

"As you said, I don't like the smell of this place," Grissom replied. He couldn't explain what it was that guided his thoughts, but he could tell that there was more going on than they knew. Despite the unrest of nature outside the walls, within there was a stagnant calm laid out over the wood and stone. "I'll feel better knowing the captain knows we are here. Now let's see why that boy was so shaken, shall we?" He stepped past his brother onto the stairs and started up them. A moment later Duane followed, shaking his head.

As they ascended, Grissom was finally able to hear the voices that Albred had attested to—several people, speaking in hushed tones, somewhere nearby. But just as he reached the last step the wood creaked beneath his boot. Once alerted to his presence, the voices stopped. He had no choice but to call out to them to know their location. "My name is Grissom Vedivier, Commander of the Order of the Crimson Blades. We have come to help you, if you so require it. Where is the master of the house?"

At first his inquires were met with only silence. The top of the stairway opened to a long, narrow hall leading left and right, and a small room directly ahead that appeared to be a water closet. Grissom was about to repeat his declaration when the sound of a voice reached his ears—a woman's voice, not words but pained whimpering, coming from their left. "Check the other rooms," Grissom asked of his brother, already heading in the direction of the distressed lady.

"Be careful," Duane warned, abiding by his instructions.

Grissom was no fool; though by the woman's voice he could tell that she would be no threat to anyone let alone a trained knight, he traversed the hall and approached the room at its end with great caution. His instincts were torn raw, stretching out like a blind man's hands in search of whatever presence was causing him this anxious spirit. The smell of blood was thick here, invading upon his nostrils. Mixed now with the woman's suffering murmurs was the irregular rasping of shallow breath. 

__

She's dying.

Grissom twisted the door handle and stepped inside. Immediately upon entering a wave of nausea flowed quickly through him, making his knees tremble. He was able to remain standing only because of his yet firm grip on the door. That didn't keep him, however, from gagging at the awful stench within the room. It crawled over him like a tangible mist, causing his eyes to water. Scowling, he scrubbed at his face to clear his senses. Slowly the interior became clear to him.

He was standing in the doorway to the manner's main bedchamber, unlit though not entirely unoccupied. Fragments of what was once wooded furniture littered the dark carpet, along with shredded clothing and papers, in some places arranged in piles. Only the bed had been left in tact, and it was there that the woman had been laid. He could not see her well in such poor lighting, but she remained very still as he entered, pressed upon her stomach. She was still whimpering, every once and a while her terrified voice interrupted by a soft cough or sob. The sound of it twisted him. 

Grissom entered further, and had taken only a few steps when his foot struck something soft and unyielding. He paused to investigate. A corpse lay beneath his boot, causing him to recoil. It was the body of a man, broken in too many places to know which blow had killed him, flesh ripped and in some places missing entirely. Grissom bent over him, wishing suddenly that he had brought his gloves along. He touched the deceased's forehead and whispered a brief prayer. In this action he also discovered that the man's eyes, ears, and lips had been removed.

"Dear God, what demons are at work here?" Grissom murmured, climbing to his feet once more and continuing to the bed. He knelt at its side so that he might see the woman better. "Ma'am, can you hear me?" he asked quietly, staring into her face. Her eyes were wide, like those of the servant boy, but they were vacant and dark. She did not seem to notice him at first, her face contorted in a look of utter agony. When Grissom moved to check for injury upon her, he found her back scarred and bloody. The bed sheets were saturated with its liquid-shadow stain, as if she had lain for hours with the wound thus unattended. 

Grissom hissed a curse beneath his breath, his hands hovering over the gross injury, distraught over how he might help her. "Duane!" he called over his shoulder, searching for a clear space of sheet to spare for a covering. But there was no untouched fabric, and so he scrambled about in the destroyed room, pulling what might have been a nightgown from the rabble. He tore it into strips, but when he moved to apply them to the wound the woman cried out suddenly, desperate, trying to edge away from him. "Ma'am, please," he said, attempting to continue his crude treatment while soothing her fear. "I am a knight—a priest, Ma'am, do not be afraid. I've come to help you." He paused long enough to call for his brother again. He knew very little about the medical arts, and if they did not come upon a doctor quickly, the lady would not have long to live. Already her skin was cold despite the blood that coated it.

"Help…me…." The woman—Lady Wellerune, he presumed—fastened a strained hand about his wrist, halting his ministrations upon her wounded back. "Father, help me," she begged, quaking from anguish and despair.

Grissom returned to his knees at her side, glancing anxiously at the door in hopes that his brother would swiftly heed his calls. "Worry not, Ma'am," he said, comforting her with a soft hand upon her chilled face. "God is with you. Can you speak to me of what has happened here? Who did these things to you?"

The Lady Wellerune trembled, and her fingers tightened, vise-like, about his arm. "Save me, help me, Father. I am cursed." She coughed violently, spitting blood upon his cuffs. "Please, Father."

"Grissom." Duane entered at last, a lantern in hand. The light reflected strangely against the severe expression his face bore. He surveyed the room briefly before moving to his brother's side. "The rest of the servants are at the other end of the hall," he reported, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it over his face to quell the stench. "Among them is the Master's nephew."

"Why haven't they sent for a physician?" Grissom demanded, taking hold of the dying woman's hand. He moved his fingers over it in a way he hoped was comforting. "The Lady is gravely injured—why has she not been attended to?" Madness, that the woman of the household be left in such a state, bleeding and alone in a room possessed by devils' spirits. He found that he was trembling slightly from the injustice of it.

Duane regarded his brother silently a moment, driving him mad with how much time they were wasting. "They'll not come near her," he explained after a moment. To better display his meaning he moved the lantern over the woman, at last exposing her injury to sight. Her flesh had been lacerated not by sword stabs, as the younger knight had assumed, but by a dagger's precise markings. The carvings were arranged in letter-like patterns—glyphs that Grissom recognized.

Duane retrieved his hand, leaving the woman to gasp in darkness once more. "A curse surely is upon this place. There is nothing you can do for her now."

Grissom stared at his brother in disbelief. The man's gaze was not without sympathy, but it was also cold. He would not lift a hand to save the woman. She was dying, slowly and without chance of redemption. Grissom returned his attention to her, watching her face—once the beautiful, curved features of a mature woman—twist with agony and regret. Surely, she would die; better for them to leave, least that curse be placed on them as well.

"Father…." Lady Wellerune tugged weakly on his arm, pleading. "Please…."

Grissom pursed his lips and, ignoring his brother, edged closer to her. "Fear not, gentle Lady," he told her with firm tone. "Am I with you, as God is surely with you. Can you not feel him? He is smiling at you, M'Lady, and he hopes to see you soon. What is your given name?"

"Marguerite," the woman whispered, here eyes focusing gradually on his serious face. "Marguerite Wellerune. Father, I have sinned—"

"Hush now. He knows." He paused, turning his eyes upon the handkerchief his brother held. Reluctantly the elder relented. Grissom folded the soft fabric and used it to clean the blood and tears from Lady Wellerune's cheeks. "He knows, and he forgives you, Marguerite. For we are all his children, whom he doth welcome even when we have done wrong. Already your husband is filling himself at his Father's table. Will you not join them? They will welcome you, Marguerite, and show you His Kingdom."

The Lady Wellerune clutched at his hands, her face eager and attentive, drinking in every word from the priest's lips as he spoke more assurances. Grissom kept his voice soft and even, as if speaking to a frightened child. Behind him, Duane waited patiently, silently marveling at the strength and comfort with which his brother spoke. By now the woman was so focused on the movement of his mouth, the promise in his tales, that she ceased her crying so she could hear him better. And all the while Grissom was for her alone, gently cleaning her face and hands, tucking loose strands of pale hair behind her ear.

He didn't know how long this lasted. It seemed to take quite some time, as his legs began to cramp, and the other disturbances of the room faded into the back of his mind. At some point two men entered the cursed chamber, respectfully silent when they beheld the scene unfolding before them. Grissom glanced up only briefly to behold their identities: the first was a tall man dressed in black which he did not recognize; the second, Romeo Guildenstern. The captain met his commander's eyes long enough to convey a nod of sympathetic approval. After that, Grissom committed himself with even greater dedication to his charge.

Soon afterwards, the Lady Wellerune was dead. There was no sign at first to signal her release—she had passed on with such peace that her body made no tormented shudder, no gasp as her life at last escaped. It was as if suddenly he could tell that she was no longer listening. 

With a sigh Grissom shut the woman's eyes, carefully pried the stiff fingers from his aching wrist, and sat back from the bed. He was exhausted. A kind of dull numbness had settled into his joints, not entirely from having maintained his position for so long. For a while afterward he continued to watch the unfortunate lady, comforted only slightly by the knowledge that he had eased her pain in entering death. "Duane," he murmured, at last tearing his gaze away.

"I'm here, Brother." Duane helped him to his feet, reflecting sympathy. He kept a hand on Grissom's arm to keep him steady. "You've done well. She is with God, now."

"Perhaps," murmured the stranger. Grissom turned quickly to face him. The tall man was clad in a long black cloak that swept about his ankles, disguising his body—and whether he might have carried a weapon. The sharp, angular features of his face were arranged in a look of shrewd contemplation as he inspected the recently deceased noble. "She was cursed, after all. These are unholy glyphs."

"We're quite aware of what they are, Inquisitor," Duane retorted in his brother's stead, for which he was grateful. "What business have you here, anyway? The acts of cultists are concerns for our Church, not your Parliament."

"Any murder is a matter of public safety, and therefore a matter of Parliament," the tall man countered. He paused, turning toward the pair suddenly. "And what of you? How did you know of this place?"

"Can't say it's any of your concern, you--"

Guildenstern stepped forward suddenly, interposing himself between the two men. Instantly Duane silenced, his jaw snapping almost audibly shut. The stranger--an Inquisitor, as Duane had said--looked taken aback and slightly annoyed. But Guildenstern paid them no heed. He was watching Grissom with clear, calm eyes. "Are you all right, Father?" he asked deliberately.

"Aye, sir," Grissom replied shortly, though his voice was not quite so sure as it ought to have been. He could still feel the imprints of the dying woman's hands upon his wrist, the damp stain of her blood. Moreover, the sickening odor of the room was beginning to affect him as well, making his innards twist. How could his brethren appear so calm in a place of evil such as this? He was distraught from too many emotions: pity for the woman; outrage and injustice for the cruelty of the crimes committed; disgust for the foul diablerie employed. He would have dragged the filthy bastards responsible through the streets by their cowardly hearts had he known where to look for them. And yet despite these heated intentions he found that he could barely bring himself to breathe, let alone act to find the heathen wretches. 

The captain nodded, though he seemed to recognize Grissom's plight. "Good. You and Father Duane are dismissed--I shall handle matters from here."

"There's no need for any of you to stay," the Inquisitor said tersely, glaring at Guildenstern's turned back. "It's obvious this is the work of cultists."

Guildenstern snorted, casting only a brief glance in the direction of the lady's corpse. "I would beg to differ, sir," he said darkly. "I've seen cult work before and this is somewhat...sloppy." He turned to glare at the man suddenly, as if daring him to refute his words. Grissom stared in confusion as the Inquisitor averted his gaze, as if having stepped down from a challenge. What was going on? His captain was now moving toward the bed, looking as confident as ever despite the sickening aura of this cursed place. Could they not feel it, as Grissom did? It was crawling over him, tearing at his pores....

Grissom turned and strode swiftly from the room, as quickly as he could manage without looking as if he'd fled. He could hear Duane's footsteps following close behind, but even if he hadn't he would have continued on, down the stairs and out into the street once more. During his time in the manor the skies had at last loosed their tears upon the darkened land--despite all the commotion caused by the wind earlier the shower was only moderate, like a child's laughter, having tricked the city into believing a storm of some importance was upon them. Grissom ignored the rain splattering his shoulders, thankful only to have escaped that demon's den. 

The crowd that had gathered earlier had now departed, save a few--the tall, bearded man, the old woman, and the servant boy were standing about Albred's recognizable form, seeking explanation and assurance. Though a storyteller to be marveled, Albred was no preacher when not faced with a willing audience, and appeared to be struggling with them. When he noticed his fellows returning, he quickly excused himself from the trio and hurried over. "There you are," he declared, as if weeks and months had passed since he saw them last. "What in God's name is happening in there? When I told the captain where you were, he came as quickly as he could."

"It's all over now," Duane told him firmly.

"Yes, apparently, but what was the matter? Still the boy will not speak."

The eldest of the three glanced to his brother, who nodded slowly. "There are black arts at work here," he began to explain, sparing Grissom from relating unpleasant details. "The master and mistress of the house slain by a devil's hand...."

He went on to describe the scene for his comrade; Albred listened, growing ever paler, shifting in the rain. Grissom had his head turned away, trying not to hear even as the words reached him with perfect clarity. He could feel that his insides were still trembling slightly. The rain slid over his hair and down his shirt collar but he didn't care. It almost felt cleansing, after having been trapped in that horrible filth of a room for so long.

__

Dear God, he prayed silently, his face lifted so that the droplets fell over him like tears. _I pray that you shall comfort the lady, now that I cannot. And_..._I pray you_.... His fists tightened reflexively. _Punish the ungodly heathens that caused this._

Grissom's sight was distracted momentarily by a shifting of movement off to his right. By all accounts it should have been impossible to see so faint a disturbance amidst the rain; nevertheless his gaze fell upon the cloaked figure of a small man, standing in an alley some ways down the all but deserted street. After the original motion that had attracted Grissom to him he remained quite still, buried beneath folds of soaked fabric. Even then, however, his body was turned in such a way that anyone could clearly see the focus of the stranger's lingering vigil.

__

He knows.

Grissom's focus jumped from the cloaked man to the manor he'd just left, and back once more. Gradually the trembling began to leave his soaked and weary limbs. Was this some sign? He took a testing step forward, and instantly the stranger's head turned beneath his hood, regarding the knight without so much as a sound. Slowly, the figure began to drift backward, into the alleyway shadows that had been it's birthing.

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	4. To Be Stained--two

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 3: To Be Stained - Part Two

Grissom cursed as he slapped the rain out of his face. His clothes were completely soaked through, his feet shivering in his boots, his eyes straining against the dark. All around him the streets were deserted and silent. Only now was he beginning to realize his folly in pursuing the cloaked stranger this far, alone and unarmed as he was. Through alleys and unlit side streets they had run, hare and hound--Duane and Albred could not possibly follow that twisted path to find their kin. And so he stood transfixed for some time, regaining his breath and bearings. Had he crossed into the southern section of city blocks? He did not recognize any of the buildings, and that made him wary.

Further down the road the figure of a man stepped into view, still wrapped in the same drenched mantle. He lingered only a moment before breaking into a run, away from the solitary knight. Cursing, Grissom resumed the chase. He had come too far to admit defeat now. The memories of Lady Wellerune's cruel death remained heavily pressed into his mind, making his closed fists ache. He would claim justice for her this night, and all others the blackheart had slain before.

The stranger hurried on, vanishing down another narrow alleyway. Grissom followed, and was startled when the short passage led them out onto the main road of South Huolen--to his right was the Holy River Queth, its waters gurgling anxiously with the unexpected raindrops. The stone rails arched over the causeway like a fort's drawbridge entrance, dotted with angelic statuettes. Grissom skidded to a halt on the slick cobblestones. His quarry had at last halted, and was standing stiffly at the bridge's inclination. There was pride in the way he held himself; strange, that it could be so easily conveyed despite the heavy cloaks surrounding his form. 

As Grissom fought to control his breathing, the man at last spoke. His voice was at once loud, so as to be heard, and soft, like wind rippling through silk sheets. "May I inquire as to why you are following me, sir?"

Grissom gathered himself to his full height, staring the man down. His imagination twisted the scene into something strange: the heathen, set against a backdrop of castle-like fortitude, could turn and flee to safety at any moment. If God's work were to be done this night, it would have to be now. "I come as a servant of God," he declared, just as loudly, fueled by a sense of righteousness. "And I place you under arrest."

"Arrest?" The silk-sheet voice was now filled with scathing amusement. "Under what authority?"

"The authority of God," Grissom snapped back, taking a careful step forward. He would have to make his approach carefully, or risk the bastard fleeing again. It was obvious that the cloaked man, despite his appearance, was the faster of the two. "I saw you at the Wellerune Manor. I know you're aware of what happened there."

The stranger did not reply for some time, his posture gradually straightening. From within his cloaks appeared a hand--wearing a glove of some sort, Grissom could just make out against the rain. A smooth motion lifted the thick woolen hood, revealing a slender, pale face with deep-set eyes. He shook his head to free locks of shoulder-length, golden hair. "I am quite aware," the stranger said in that same undulating tone.

Grissom frowned at the stranger's face. There was something familiar about that lean visage, though he could not place it in his memory. These concerns were quickly forgotten, however, and he demanded, "Why? Why would you beasts do such a thing?" He moved another few steps forward, eyes narrowed and blazing. "To a defenseless, elderly--"

"Hold your tongue, Churchman," the stranger snapped at him suddenly. He did not attempt to withdraw, encouraging Grissom to step forward once more. They were now only half a dozen meters apart. "'Twas not I that scarred the woman."

Grissom snorted disdainfully. "Of course not. I'm sure you had one of your dark servants do the job." His mind spun, trying to conceive a course of action. "Couldn't have blood spilt across that pretty face of yours."

Still the blond man held his ground, fixing the knight with a sharp, increasingly annoyed glare. "You come in the name of your _God_," he spat, "but you are blind. I and mine had nothing to do with the death of the unfortunate nobles. If you seek vengeance, speak to the Parliament dog that feeds on their carcasses."

"I seek justice." But the man's words made him pause, remembering the intense glare shared by the Inquisitor and his captain. There may have been more to this design than he had anticipated.

Something in Grissom's mind slid into place just then, and he stared at the blonde, gradually fitting the flawless skin and marble eyes into a coherent image. "I know you," he murmured, suddenly recalling the events of that night long past. "You're one of those pagan cultists." The smell and the filth of the room of Lady Wellerune's death returned to him as well, and he shuddered with disgust. "I cannot suffer so miserable a creature to walk free."

"And I say to you," the blonde declared, spreading his arms, "you'll not find Marguerite's blood here. Go back to your church and your blind ways, knight. I have no business with you." As if these words were final he turned, starting onto the worn stones of the bridge.

Grissom uttered a curse and strode swiftly after him. He had no way of fighting--he knew this, but he could not be still and simply watch a criminal depart so effortlessly into the night. A few long steps brought him to the cultist, and he reached out, his hand closing around a cloaked shoulder. It wasn't until he touched him that he realized how thin and frail the man beneath the fabric really was. "Halt!" he commanded as he dragged him back, ready to use stronger force if need be.

The cultist turned far more easily than Grissom had anticipated--as if it had been his intention all along. His cloak billowed despite the rain beating into it, momentarily drawing the knight's vision. A streak of harsh light split the field of storm-washed gray. With it came a swell of atmosphere, a stench not unlike the cold shadows of the Wellerune manner. The warning, however, came too late for Grissom. Even as he pulled away the light swept over him, carving a path of fire along his left arm and shoulder. The pain was so intense that he could not even cry out--or perhaps it had merely been drowned out by the cracking bellow in his ears, the hiss of rain sizzling against burned flesh. 

It had all happened far too fast. The impact of the spell threw Grissom backwards, twisting, and he landed harshly on the rain-wet stones. Only then did his voice return to him, breaking free in an anguished cry as his injured side struck the ground. He could not even clutch at the burns without causing him greater agony. He rolled onto his back, gasping through clenched teeth--already his fingers were growing stiff, though the rest of him trembled.

Magick--he'd been hit by magick. Grissom tried to control himself, to block the pain searing his limb, with very little success. He could not pry his eyes open to behold what had become of his quarry. There was only the fierce white heat in his flesh, the suffocating filth of dark powers lingering about his huddled form. He only barely managed to choke out a strangled curse. "Cowardly bastard...."

"I could have killed you, just now." The voice floated to him as if on the edge of a dream, enfolded in the pounding rain that caused his arm to spasm with every droplet that fell upon it. "Perhaps you'll learn something with this."

Grissom cringed, trying to pry his eyes to open. The rain stung, and forced them shut. He trembled with outrage and pain. His arm was throbbing so intensely that he couldn't properly determine where the ache was coming from, how badly he'd been damaged. It felt as if the entire limb were on fire.

"Grissom!" 

Someone was calling him. He could lift his voice in no more than a pained moan, however, to signal his position. It must have been louder than he'd thought--soon after a man knelt over him, and another moved past onto the bridge. "Grissom, it's Duane," the voice said harshly in his ear, pressing against his back in an attempt to right him. Grissom gritted his teeth and obeyed the gentle prodding. "Hold on, Brother. Calm yourself."

Grissom gradually managed to get his breathing under control, and with that came the release of his tightly closed eyelids. The scene was slow to penetrate his dulled senses: Duane rested at his side, and in front of him stood the form of captain Guildenstern, rapier pointing at the hooded cultist. The captain's posture was tall and straight--he did not risk even a glance back as he spoke. "Father Grissom. Are you all right?"

"No, sir," Grissom croaked, cradling his arm against his chest. Whatever evil the cultist had used against him, it had incinerated his entire left sleeve and much of his flesh. He shuddered as agony spread from his arm into the rest of him. "I...my arm...."

"You'd better take him to a doctor, Guildenstern," the cultist advised knowingly. "Best not waste your time with me. You know I came this night only as witness, not as executioner."

Still the captain did not so much as shift his weight. "Father Duane," he said evenly, keeping his sword tip aimed at the blonde's throat. "Take care of your brother for me."

There was something strange in his voice when he spoke those words; pained as he was, however, Grissom could not take the time to ponder its significance. He was more concerned with the fidgeting response from his brother. "Sir, his wounds are serious," he stated softly, his profile seemingly sharper against the dreary streets.

"Aye. And so I ask you to take care of him." Guildenstern took a step forward. "Leave Losstarot to me."

__

Losstarot? Grissom's attention snapped back to his assailant, pale with wonder. _Sydney Losstarot, leader of the unholy sect of Müllenkamp. Prophet and mind reader--a warlock._ He inhaled sharply, grimacing. _Dear God, but you were merciful to spare my life._

Duane was still shifting uneasily, his eyes wide. After a silent moment he murmured, "As you say, sir," and turned to his brother once more. "Come, Grissom." He pulled Grissom's right arm over his shoulders and started to lift him up.

Grissom bit his lip, and managed to climb to his feet with Duane's help. He tottered only a moment--his head was spinning--before regaining his balance. "Be careful, Sir Guildenstern," he advised, concerned.

"Worry of yourself, Father," the man replied simply.

Duane took a step back, pulling his brother with him, before turning to depart from the scene. Grissom kept his eyes on the stare-locked pair as long as he could, and paid little attention to where they were headed. His feet obeyed Duane's directions without hesitation. Only after a few short minutes of travel, however, Duane muttered a curse and pulled them into the shelter of a narrow alleyway, and set his charge down among the rain-washed filth.

"Duane, what are you doing?" Grissom demanded. He tried to stand, and found he had no strength to do so alone. The pain in his arm was so great that he was made nauseous from it.

"Hold still." Duane crouched beside him, probing carefully over the wound: the burns were deep, blistering, and ran all the way from shoulder to elbow like the limb of a skinned animal. He cursed savagely.

Grissom squeezed his eyes shut, allowing his body to slump against the wall of alley, his mind faded and dark. His wound was serious--would he lose the limb? The thought caused a cold tremor to run through him, which only made the pain even more acute. "Brother," he gasped, trying to control his breathing. "Why...have we stopped?"

"Just hold still, damn you. And be silent." He could feel Duane shifting, his hands hovering indecisively over the length of the burns. For a long moment there was silence, save the slowing pace of the rain, the harsh exhalations of Grissom's breath. The younger brother did as he was told, too weak with strain to protest any longer. His compliance was awarded, as it seemed, by a gentle chill spreading over his enflamed flesh. It was calming and soft, like a woman's soothing hand; he sighed quietly, too relieved to question the origin of this mysterious salvation.

The calm was, no more than a few seconds later, replaced by a soft tingling, as if his arm had not been burned but was merely awakening from sleep. There was only a slight pain, and a tugging sensation. At last Grissom opened his eyes as the clouds melted from his consciousness. He had not considered what source this relief was being drawn from, and so when the scene became clear to him was thrown into shock. Duane, his brother, was holding his widespread hands over Grissom's arm, and from his fingertips a faint, iridescent green light was filtering toward the burns. The man's face was drawn in concentration; his eyes did not leave his work.

Grissom stared at him, his jaw slack and face pale. He recognized that emerald glow, of course--magick, the black arts, of the same form that had so deeply scarred him already. And his brother was working them. His brother--his very blood, a priest and a knight of the highest order, heir to the Vedivier name and legacy--was working magick upon him. He was too stunned and distraught to move. He turned his gaze to his arm, watching the shimmering lights descend upon the charred flesh and gradually knit it into smooth skin once more. The process was slow but precise, moving up toward his shoulder, healing the burns.

Several minutes later Duane released his breath and sat back. He would not meet his brother's gaze as Grissom examined his newly healed appendage. There was no blemish, not even a scar. He was speechless. He curled his fingers, testing, pressed his nail into his forearm to make sure it was no illusion he suffered from. He had been mended. Even so, his body trembled with the knowledge he now held.

Duane could command magick.

Grissom searched for his voice and found nothing. He felt no anger or revulsion--he only felt ill. He had never expected such a thing, could have never prepared to question his brother on matters such as these. Thousands of unsaid inquiries invaded upon his brain: How long had Duane known these arts? From whence had they come? Were there other magicks he could work besides healing?

Duane refused to meet the searching gaze. His jaw was held tight, though otherwise he showed no outward sign of discomfort at having just betrayed his thirty-seven years of devout faith. "I'll take you back now," he said, his voice strangely hollow and distant. Gradually, the rain slowed and halted around them, leaving the only sounds in the alley those of droplets sliding off the roof gutters. Another moment passed, and the elder Vedivier rose stiffly to his feet. He there waited.

Grissom gulped, though his mouth was dry and his throat twisting with unsaid questions. One trembling hand pressed into the alley wall to assist him in pushing to his feet. His body felt odd to him--charged, as if a bolt of lightning had passed through him, leaving him with too much energy to the simple task of moving his limbs. It was by no means an unpleasant sensation, and he moved his arms hesitantly, testing. Was this the power he had been taught to loathe, to excise? This strange flow of vibrant warmth, this thrill--

Grissom shook his head, startled and ashamed by his own thoughts. For him to be admiring the tools of his enemies--of demons--was foul madness. "Duane," he said, his voice a bit too high, too desperate as he turned on his brother for an explanation.

"I'll take you back," his brother interrupted firmly. Without waiting for a response he took several northward steps, as if content to leave their exchange as thus.

Grissom pressed his lips thin, and moved slowly to follow. He could not bring himself to speak against the silence of the night--he felt as if the heavens, darkened and overcast, were mourning with him the death of something within his heart. It spread cold agony through him, deeper than the burns that had only minutes ago scarred his very flesh. His gaze fled the form of his brother as he fell into step behind him. 

Duane led the pair through the streets once more, making no sound other than the gentle splash of his boots in fresh puddles. Grissom, too, held his voice silent as he pondered the events of the long day. He'd gained some extra sleep to prepare for his testing, watched as his companions were pitted against the captain, retired to the town for a drink, discovered Lady Wellerune in the manor, chased whom he thought to be her assailant through the city, learned...that his brother....

These thoughts tumbled again and again through his distraught brain, and he shook his head several times to clear them without success. It made no sense--none of it. Sydney had spoken of a Parliament dog--the Inquisitor, most likely, that he had met briefly with inside the manner. What reason would a spy and informant have to murder an old noble couple? Such accusations also offered no explanation to the stain of dark magick he'd felt in the chamber, the overpowering stench of evil. Surely, only demon spawn were capable of working such arts.

But no--his brother, the priest and knight, could perform such spells. 

And what of Captain Guildenstern? He was compelled suddenly to turn back, to search for his leader whom they had abandoned in the face of a devil. Before he even slowed his pace, however, he was gripped suddenly by anxiety--surely the first thing Guildenstern would question would be the condition of his left arm, burned and blistered last he saw it. How could he explain the mysterious healing without placing his brother in jeopardy? If the captain knew of Duane's impurity, soon the cardinal would know, which would lead to the appointment of a heresy examiner, an investigation...Grissom cringed. It was too much--too much to consider all at once, and he was weak again, and very small. Helpless.

The brothers did not return to the Wellerune Manor--Grissom noticed that Duane was leading them in a path specifically avoiding the crime scene. He wondered what had become of Albred, but thought better than to question. He was too weary to protest any of his brother's actions. They made their way silently through the city streets that glistened with the freshly spent rain, toward the towering shadows of the Grand Cathedral. Despite protocols they did not file a report of the night's activities with the scribe's office. Weary steps carried the pair to their quarters at the far end of the knight's compound, where their paths separated; Grissom's room was part of the commander's complex, while Duane and his wife were granted a small tenant apartment further from the soldiers. They parted without a word. For this Grissom was grateful--he would not have known how to respond to anything his brother asked of him now. 

The halls were quiet that evening; most of the soldiers of his own rank were long since asleep, nursing weary bodies and minds after the grueling trials. The lower officers were similarly subdued, preparing for when they would be put to judgment. Grissom slipped into his room in the eastern quadrant undisturbed, changing slowly into fresh nighttime attire. Though his body still felt the tingling charge of Duane's magick, his senses were dull and without motivation. With a sigh he collapsed onto the stiff mattress and cast his gaze to the ceiling. 

__

Dear God, what happened here tonight? Grissom prayed, crossing himself. _Forgive me_._ I should have never pursued the man_._ And_..._forgive my brother_. _Whatever his sins, please, forgive him--us_.

Only a few minutes of thoughtful silence passed before there was a soft knock on his door. Though currently unenthusiastic in receiving visitors, Grissom called for the man to enter. He did not rise to greet him, merely cocked an eye. It was Albred, having also changed from his soaked garments, wearing an expression of severe concern. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him. "Grissom, you're back," he said with blatant relief. "I was worried. Did Duane find you? He was in a fit when you took off like that."

"I'm fine," Grissom replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He was in no mood to put up with Albred's whining at present. More importantly, he was fearful of the questions he might ask of that evening's events. "And yes, I was a fool. No, I didn't catch the rogue. Are all your questions satisfied?"

"Hardly." Albred took it upon himself to take a seat at Grissom's desk, sitting backwards in the chair that he might see his friend as he continued. "Did you see who it was? Duane mentioned such horrible arts at work."

Grissom tried hard not to grimace. Yes, now he knew that his brother well recognized the dark arts. "Aye. 'Twas a demon in the form of a man. A cultist dog." He scrubbed at his eyes as if to remove the stain of the memories from his sight. "Now Albred, please, I am weary."

"Of course, I assumed as much. I only wanted to be assured that you made it back a'right." He stood, looking awkward and weighted by too many questions. "And...the captain? I would have liked to see him facing down a cultist--what a tale that would be for the 'Dove, wouldn't it?"

"Aye, friend, maybe. Now please." The commander turned away, wishing for solitude once more. "Ask me again in the morning."

Albred regarded him with disappointment, though he seemed to understand. "A'right. In the morning." He straightened suddenly. "Rest well, Grissom. You deserve it, after all that. Shall we meet for breakfast? Neither of us will be on duty."

"A late breakfast. I daresay I'll sleep late."

"Aye, fine. That would be fine." He nodded to himself, searching for some word of consolation for his friend. Grissom almost sighed openly in impatience--he didn't need such assurances. He only wanted to be alone. "Well then, in the morning. I'll be about, when you're ready." Albred moved to the door and hesitated a moment more before exiting at last.

__

I cannot tell Albred, Grissom thought sourly as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. _He is as white and righteous as a saint_._ Who can I turn to, now that my brother_..._my own blood has turned his face from God? I must speak to him._ He sighed heavily as fatigue overwhelmed him. _I cannot abandon him. I will bring him back into God's favor. I can save him_. 

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	5. Welcoming

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 4: Welcoming

As he had anticipated, Grissom did not rise until the day had progressed late into morning. Despite all his anxieties he had slept soundly, and was filled with robust energy once he woke. The arm that had come so close to losing function completely now seemed to move more easily than ever. Even the gruesome bruise dealt to him by his captain during his status trial had been remedied. He spent several long minutes in front of the mirror, watching the curling of his fingers, the bending of his elbow, until he no longer felt so odd. It was wearing off quickly, thank God.

Breakfast--or perhaps, more appropriately, lunch--with Albred was an anxious affair. The knight wanted to speak of nothing save the night before, with all its bizarre occurrences. Grissom dodged each question as best he could, and even faked a pain in his left shoulder so no one would question the absence of his bruise. As a storyteller at heart, Albred would be quick to notice such details. But in the end Grissom proved to be a good enough liar, and his companion departed for his duties none the wiser.

Grissom heaved a sigh of relief once he was alone. As he had just been put through the trials he was given a day's recuperation, though he could not think of a single way to enjoy his superior's generosity. He would have liked to seek out Tieger and Neesa for their counsel, but today was their scheduled examination, and they would be detained for the better part of the day. Thankfully the same was to be said about their captain. Grissom dreaded that meeting more than anything--more so, even, than facing his brother. 

"Father Grissom."

He had been on his way back to his room, seeking solitude and repose, when the voice froze him in place. A chill ran all along his spine. He should have turned immediately, should have nodded acknowledgment. But the thought of facing the bearer of that voice twisted his innards; he had no explanation to give, and he grieved already for the loss of favor he held with his patient captain. _Please God, give me strength_, he prayed, resisting the temptation to cross himself. Slowly, he turned.

Romeo Guildenstern was watching him with calm perplexity, as if trying to ascertain the cause of his commander's sudden hesitation. He was clad in full armor that bore no signs of the rain from the night before, and his manner seemed brisk and fresh. "Good afternoon, Father," he greeted with a polite nod. "Did I startle you?"

Grissom hastened to return his captains salutations with a nod of his own. "I'm sorry, sir. I was preoccupied." His left arm began to throb, as if suddenly wary of being seen, and he turned his body just slightly to keep the limb out of Guildenstern's view. At least he wouldn't have to fake an expression of pain—his ill ease was already making his features tight. "Do you not have evauluations today?"

"Oh, they are today," he answered, smiling just slightly. He didn't seem to notice his company's distress, or if he did, made no indication of it. "But seeing as I'll be occupied all this week, I'm allowed a bit of time in the morning for myself. I was just on my way to join the commanders on the field."

"I hope you won't be too difficult with my comrades," Grissom managed to say lightly. He and his captain had, on occasion, shared a pleasant word, and to not do so now would only alert him further to an already desperate situation. _If he discovers what my brother—what we've done, he will be obligated to deal with us. I do not want to put him in such a position. Dear God, if anyone is to know, I beg you, make it not be him. I worked so hard to gain even this small favor with him._

Guildenstern was still smiling, in a way that usually made Grissom feel a bit of pride; there was no arguing that the captain held respect for his young commander. But seeing him so at ease now only made Grissom cringe, knowing that trust to be misplaced. "I wouldn't worry about them too much," Guildenstern said easily, taking a step towards him. Grissom tried not to flinch, and was granted some relief when it looked as if the older man was simply moving past him to continue down the hall. "This is only a routine trial. I've no intentions of cutting back our forces."

"Yes, sir. I wish you good luck today." Grissom hid a sigh of relief as Guildenstern stepped past, relaxing somewhat. 

"Thank you. Oh, and Grissom." Grissom's breath caught in his throat at the knight's next words. "How fares your arm?"

Unconsciously the commander pressed his arm close to his body as he turned to face the man once more. "It's…not as bad as it looked last night, sir," he answered, injecting strength and assurance into his unsteady voice. "I think it will be quite healed in very little time at all."

Guildenstern nodded. "That's good to hear." He paused there a moment more, watching Grissom with eyes that were too sharp, too questioning. Again Grissom was reduced to silent prayers—thankfully, Guildenstern appeared convinced. "Take care of yourself well," he advised as he continued on his way.

Once he was out of sight, Grissom released all the breath he'd been holding through a deep, very relieved sigh. He wiped his brow against a clammy palm. _I won't be able to keep this up_, he thought sourly, starting quickly back to his quarters. _I…I have to face Duane. I have to know what's going on, and what I can do to resolve it._ When he replayed the exchange in his mind he cursed. _God, forgive me for lying to him so blatantly. But I'm protecting him, too._

Grissom stood for many long minutes with his knuckles poised over his brother's door. Such cowardice he'd never thought existed in him. Already he had allowed a week to pass without action or event. The trials had ended, the new season begun. Winter's cold chill had left the land about the Great Cathedral dark and brown, shivering beneath a blanket of decaying leaves and fallen daisies. Grissom had watched these changes with a heavy heart as time slipped away from him. Every time he found himself here he pulled away, fearful of what more secrets his brother had to tell. Thankfully his companions had refrained from questioning his current state of disquietude, offering their silent support. It was not much comfort to him, but he had found himself again in this position, rallying courage. 

__

I must save him. He took a deep breath and touched briefly the silver pendant that hung about his neck._ Whatever he has done, he is still my brother._

Grissom knocked—four times, as he had always done since the time they were boys. A moment later he was met by Duane's wife, the elegant brunette Rulelia, who greeted him warmly. "I'm so glad you've come," she said, taking his arm as she led him through their modest dwelling toward her husband's private study. "You know, I've never seen you brothers quarrel before, in all those years we've known each other. I hope you'll be able to resolve this all, and quickly."

"As do I, Rulelia," Grissom replied truthfully. She had always been a great strength for both of them, very much like an older sister to the youngest Vedivier, and he was grateful for her kind words. "If you please, I'd like to be left alone with him for a while."

"Of course." She rapped lightly on Duane's door, and stepped aside once he had signaled for her entry. "God be with you both." She kissed Grissom affectionately on the check and left quietly, busying herself with the household chores.

Grissom pushed the door to Duane's study open quickly, before he was given the chance to doubt himself further. It closed firmly behind him. His brother was seated at his desk on the far end of the small room, not five paces wide, reading from one of their father's old texts. When he realized that it was not his wife standing opposite him, he closed the book abruptly and rose to his feet. "Grissom." Duane's lips parted to say more, but nothing came forth. 

Grissom imagined that he must have borne a similar countenance. "Duane." He spoke sharply, startling his elder a bit, wanting his every word heard clearly. "There's something I need to ask you."

Duane nodded vaguely, having expected as much. He gestured for his brother to take a seat at the desk as he did the same. "Of course, Grissom. I…haven't seen you of late."

"Yes. I regret that, but…." Grissom took Duane's invitation, though he felt no more at ease in the soft leather. "Brother, I think you already know what I want to ask."

"Yes, I know." Duane folded his hands on the desk, his expression serious but understanding. "About that night. My powers."

Grissom's throat constricted briefly. It had been a foolish notion, but some part of him had been hoping Duane would deny it, would blame the sins on some other cause. To hear him admitting it, no matter how obvious a declaration, was shocking. "Why didn't I know about this?" Grissom demanded, placing both hands on the desk edge as if ready to spring to his feet at any moment. "Duane, do you realize what it is you are meddling with? If someone else was to know that you—"

"Grissom, calm down," Duane interrupted, far too composed for the situation. "I will explain everything, but you'll have listen carefully. It's not as simple as you think."

"I don't see how it could be more complicated than you using a devil's arts," he retorted, though each word was pain to him. "Duane, my brother, how could you do this? After all our father—"

Again Duane spoke over him, his eyes narrowing. "Our father has nothing to do with this. And I resent your accusations, Grissom. I have yet to explain myself."

"Then, by all means, continue." Grissom leaned back, watching him expectantly. _It does have to do with our Father. Father was the one that gave us our faith. By God, Duane, if you have betrayed even his memory, how can I forgive you?_

Duane settled, taking careful note of the bitter gleam in his brother's pointed stare. "Grissom," he started again, slowly. "Yes, I can use black magick, what the cults call 'the Dark.' It is a very precise and exacting practice, which few can wield effectively. I happen to be one of those few."

"But—but how did you know this?" Grissom pursed his lips into a thin line. For Duane to have learned these things meant he'd had a teacher, someone to learn from. How many of his order's fine soldiers were thus tainted, and how had he not see them previously? "How long has this been going on? Why didn't I know about it?"

"You didn't know because we are very careful at hiding ourselves," the elder Vedivier continued calmly. "I expected you to react this way, and I'm sure you can imagine what others would have done. Think of Albred, for God's sake! He is more pious than I, and far more fearful of these things. He would have told the entire city."

"Albred is not your brother," Grissom reminded icily. "How long, Duane?"

Duane ground his teeth, at last betraying his still visage with a look of guilt. He scratched at his beard distastefully. "Almost five years," he said at last.

"Five years. Five _years_, and you couldn't say a word to your own brother?" He found himself suddenly on his feet, his fists tightening in injustice and hurt. "Duane, how could you? Five damn years of lying to me! How can you justify that?"

"It happened just after you received your cloth," Duane countered in a far more reserved tone. That voice was starting to drive Grissom mad. "How could I explain to you, when all you could speak of was your devotion and faith? Grissom, telling you would have been dangerous. You weren't ready."

Grissom exhaled sharply in exasperation and turned away. "And I suppose I'm still not ready. Damnit Duane, you should have told me." He paused suddenly, glanced over his shoulder. "Does…does Rulelia know?"

He nodded shortly. "Yes, she knows. I told her soon after it happened."

"Happened?" Grissom forced himself to return, to focus all his attention on his brother. He needed to understand it all, whatever was happening. Only then would he be able to pass judgment. "What happened?"

Duane started to speak, then caught himself and shook his head. "I…can't tell you that yet."

"Why not? I've already seen…well, I've seen what you can do. What harm could there be in telling me now?" Grissom leaned over the desk, feeling the gentle weight of his pendant against the inside of his shirt at that movement. "You are my brother. I will not condemn you, not now. I could never abandon or betray you. You know that, Duane, so please, let me trust you again."

Duane stared at him, touched by his sincerity. "I believe you," he murmured, his jaw working with restraint. "And I would tell you everything, if I could. But it isn't up to me, Grissom. It's more complicated than just us." He pushed back from his desk and at last stood, moving about the furniture that he could clap his brother's shoulders. "I trust you. And I know I've been wrong to keep this from you, but it was for your own protection. And…for others. I hope that you can forgive me."

"I…." Grissom wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to trust his brother again, as they had always depended on each other, and was willing in that moment to be patient a while longer if it meant coming to understand the motives behind this betrayal. "I want to trust you, and I want to forgive. But…I don't know if I can. Not until I know everything."

Duane's face fell, though he nodded, accepting. "In that case," he said quietly, "there is only one thing to be done." 

----

Grissom entered the Cathedral's grand hall with short, reverent strides. He had not seen the inside of this place for some time—not since before the cultist incident—and he felt guilty, under the watchful eyes of the immense stained glass windows. Their vibrant colors spilled over him, questioning his absence, and he lowered his head to avoid seeing their inquiries. His knees trembled somewhat as he started down the long red carpeting, past pews of huddled townsfolk and even a few knights with their heads bowed in prayer. Their whispers clung to him as he walked, stiffly, to where Cardinal Gravos Batistum stood at the alter, speaking comforts to a young woman. She was clad in a formal dress of pale lavender, a faire and beautiful maid. When the cardinal noticed the approach of one of his knights, however, he gave his apologies and dismissed her. Grissom nodded politely as she passed, and was returned the same courtesy. He then continued until he stood just before his lord and leader.

__

"You need to speak to the Cardinal, Grissom. Tell him I sent you to him. He will understand, and reveal everything to you."

Grissom gulped as he dropped to one knee before the Cardinal. Though he believed in his brother's sincerity in sending him here, he had no knowledge of what may lay in store for him. "Your eminence," he said formally, head bowed. "I am here on behalf of my brother. He has sent me to you." _Please, let him know my meaning. I do not know if I could better explain._

The Cardinal regarded his servant thoughtfully a moment, making the young commander anxious. "You may rise," he said, offering his hand to be kissed. Grissom gratefully accepted, though his tension was not yet at all abated. "Come with me, Father." Without waiting for his response the Cardinal turned and headed for a door at the back of the chapel. Grissom followed, glancing about nervously at a few of the worshippers who had paused to stare. He gave no complaint, however, as he was led into his master's living chambers. 

"Why don't you have a seat, Father?" Cardinal Batistum offered, indicating a red velvet sofa. He himself was moving to sit nearby, in an oak-wood chair with an intricately carved back. Everything in the room was just as splendid, made of silk and satin, displaying oil works that depicted scripture passages, antiques belonging to cardinal's past, and several different forms of their symbol, the Rood. Grissom wasn't sure if he had expected this—he had never given thought to what his master's quarters might have looked like, what degree of vanity might be expressed. He found that, despite the rich color of the drawing room, it was not at all too gaudy or excessive. 

The Cardinal was quiet a moment, considering his company with utter seriousness. Though he was somewhat younger than most that took to his position—in his late fifties, Grissom believed—he was a shrewd man with a thin, wise face, and wide eyes that were never obtrusive, only fair. He was a man well liked and respected among the people, and even more so by those that served him. "Now, Grissom Vedivier, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. My brother, Sir Duane Vedivier, has sent me here." Grissom's mouth felt dry, though his palms were sweating. He could not bring himself to imagine how the Cardinal would react to him.

Cardinal Batistum nodded, mostly to himself. "Yes, so you say. To be honest with you, I was expecting to see you. Your brother spoke to me some time ago on the matter. I am glad to see you have come at last."

__

Duane…spoke to the Cardinal? About me? His chest tightened reflexively. _About that night? But—but how could he reveal such things to the Cardinal? Could it be, he has already gained his redemption?_ "Forgive me, sir, but I'm quite confused," he admitted. "Exactly what matter are we speaking of?"

"There's no need to be so timid," the elder man said pleasantly, though his smile was somewhat grim. "I know all about your brother's abilities. About how he healed your arm."

Grissom flinched. He had tried not to speculate, but some part of him suspected as much. "Sir…I still don't understand. You…condone his actions?" _Dear God, how lost have I been all this time, to not even know that my very master, our center, has turned a blind eye to such contamination of our order?_

Cardinal Batistum sighed quietly, and folded his hands. "You are a smart lad, Grissom. I have watched your career with my own private interest, as you have always served me, and our Father, very well. And now I can't help but think that, were it not for your brother's intervention, you would have become lost to our cause. As a preacher of our Lord, perhaps not, but you are much more valuable to us with all your skills intact, are you not?"

"Thank you, sir." By now Grissom's head was spinning. "So, you've always known about my brother, then."

"Yes, I have always known. And yes, I do not admonish him for it. You see," he continued as he pushed to his feet, "I am the one that taught him."

The commander ground his teeth, silently thanking God that his father were not here to hear such blasphemy. However, despite the cruel truths being told to him, he was surprised to find that he was not afraid or resentful anymore. He felt tired, throughout his entire being. Weary, and accepting. "Please continue, your Lordship."

"Several years ago—just after your Ordainment, I believe—your brother was sent to me. He was afraid and confused, much as I imagine you were in coming to me. And I told him what I'm about to tell you." He moved with long strides to a locked bookshelf set against the drawing room wall, opening with a key from his robes. There was a small drawer at the bottom that required a different key, again which the Cardinal produced, revealing an old, dusty text bound with leather and whisker-vine. He returned to his seat and met Grissom's gaze again with piercing seriousness. "I gave him this. Do you know what it is?"

"No, sir." Grissom shifted closer, trying to get a better look. The cover, once a rich violet shade, was now cracked and fading. He could just make out, however, characters etched into its surface. He shuddered; they were just like those carved into the back of Margueritte Wellerune.

"I came upon this book as a young man, not long after I had entered God's service," the Cardinal explained, flipping idly through its weathered pages. "It is a book of magick, of spells and sorcery. The 'Dark,' as some are fond of calling it. It has taught me a great deal." He closed the text with a snap, ejecting a small fountain of dust into the air. "As it taught Father Duane, and many others in our order. Men and women that are well hidden, fearful of being persecuted by the common people who would fail to understand us." He paused. "Tell me, sir Grissom, what are you willing to give up for the sake of your God?"

Grissom was taken aback, allowing a look of shock to spread through his features. But with those words he knew his answer, no matter what frightening conesequences might follow. "Everything, your Lordship. All of myself, for my God."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that." The Cardinal's smile had grown more genuine, and he held out the book for him to take.

Grissom accepted hesitantly, his fingers tingling a bit at the feel of the worn leather. The book was nearly as thick as his closed fist, and it smelled of dust and decaying leaves. He moved his palm over its cover, not yet brave enough to open it and spill the secrets it held. "Sir, may I ask…what is it we do?" He raised his gaze to his leader once more. "Is this not heresy?"

The Cardinal's calm expression did not falter. "It might seem that way. But I guarantee you, Father, that none of us who are knowledgeable in these arts have turned our backs on God. There is quite a difference between what you are going to learn, and what the cultists do."

"What I…?" Grissom gulped, absently tracing the symbols that made up the book's title. "I am going to learn this art?"

"Why, of course. That is why your brother sent you to me, is it not?"

"I wouldn't know." He licked his lips, weighed down by too many surprises. _So, my brother wants me to learn magick. Father, Mother, could you forgive me? My Lord, could you?_ "But please, tell me more."

Cardinal Batistum nodded, and did go on, his voice like that of a patient father. "The cults use a very raw form of the 'Dark,' using wizardry and sorcery to call on power they believe lies within the earth itself. They resurrect demons and earthly beasts to do their bidding. Theirs is an evil, violent power, drawn from sorrow and hatred, employed to control God's children through fear. But we, Father, are prelates of our God." He spread his arms wide, welcoming, and Grissom couldn't help but be drawn in by his words. "We utilize power of a different kind, drawn from the infinite spirit of man-the spirit God gifted us to use. Is it not true that any weapon in the hands of a rogue will cause destruction? Power is not necessarily evil; those who wield it decide its fate. As when your brother healed you, ours is a holy magick, a tool for us to use in defense of demons."

"A holy power," the commander echoed, the fatigue in his body seeping away. "A tool." He straightened, replying those words over in his mind. The power to heal instead of destroy, to use the good graces of God rather than to steal it from devils…was this the skill his brother wielded? Had he been wrong to fear and resent him for it? He shifted, filled with possibility and promise. Perhaps they had not betrayed anyone after all. They fought with sword and stave; could they not fight also with their very soul? "If I had mastery of that power not a week ago," he murmured, "might I have been able to save the Lady Wellerune?"

The Cardinal frowned thoughtfully. "From what Father Duane told me, her wounds were serious, and coupled with a cultist curse. It would be difficult to remedy such an injury. However," he continued, "a strong enough sorcerer is capable of undoing even greater damage than that."

Grissom nodded, continuing to stare at the heavy text in his hands. Contained in those pages were skills beyond his comprehension. Not for long. He could learn this art, and learn it well. Had he not sworn his total loyalty to his church, his cause? In the past he had spoken strong words of unwavering faith to his brother and comrades; how foolish he must have sounded them, having never undergone this test. Yes, it was a test, and a challenge he was willing to meet. The Cardinal's reassurances were more than enough to convince him of the righteousness in his undertaking, and he nodded deftly, sealing his determination. "Thank you, your Eminence. I have been well educated by you, and I shall strive to repay you with my actions in your name."

The Cardinal's lips broke in a grin. "I knew you would. That book I will allow you to keep for three days, no more, and you must learn from it all you can in that time. I'm sure your brother will help you. However—" his tone became unwaveringly stern once more "—you must be very careful not to let any other see you with it. We live in uncertain times, Father, and I cannot afford to put any of my valued followers at risk. The world is not yet ready for what you are about to undertake; you will be scorned and feared if you allow yourself to be known. If you are found out, I will not be able to protect you from popular opinion. This step maybe necessary for our survival against tyrants, but until our people understand that, you must protect them by remaining silent. I cannot overstate the importance of this matter."

"Yes, I understand." Grissom was beginning to realize why his brother had felt the need to hide from him so; he was also beginning to forgive. It was better this way, that he and his brethren be allowed to protect their lambs from quiet shadows. Still, he was also wondering how many of his comrades had been forced to bear this secret, and how he might approach them. "Sir, what if I find someone who I believe would understand this?"

"Then you shall bring them to my attention, and I will have it dealt with," he replied instantly. "You are not to approach anyone on your own, understand? It must be this way, so that I am aware of everyone that begins to learn."

"Yes, sir. I will be careful."

"Yes, I know you shall." The Cardinal pushed to his feet once more, retrieving a silk scarf to wrap the text in. "To distract attention," he explained, making sure it was sufficiently covered. He set his hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Good luck to you, Father Grissom. I will continue to watch your performance. I expect that you will make good use of what I have entrusted you with."

Grissom nodded, all his earlier insecurities having faded completely from his mind. He thought briefly of his brother, eager to hear the circumstances of his coming to learn of this power. And with those thoughts raised other curiosities, of how many others shared this secret with them. Though it would be foolhardy to seek them out, to question even the closest of allies, from then on he vowed to be vigilant. "Thank you, your Lordship." His hands tightened around the leather-bound spine. "I will."

To Chapter Five

Return


	6. Pierced by the Rose

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 5: Pierced by the Rose--Part one 

"Try not to concentrate on the specifics so much," Neesa advised, her hand tightening around Grissom's in assurance. "Your power is not as delicate as it seems—it will obey you, as long as you are careful. There's no need to be timid."

Grissom pursed his lips, shifting his cramped legs. "But is this necessary?" he questioned yet again that morning. "This meditation, day after day."

"Yes. Now be still."

He sighed distastefully at his companion's strict instructions. He knew better, however, than to disobey her. Having long since returned Cardinal Batistum's magick text, he was in need of a teacher to help him develop and control his new abilities. The question had been put immediately to Duane, and not a day later, Neesa had approached him. Though he would have preferred to work with his brother personally, Duane insisted that Neesa was the better choice. Not only had she been studying the arts far longer, but her control was precise and her patience even greater. He was lucky to have her, which she never forgot to remind him of.

"Close your eyes," Neesa was saying, her voice soft and even, echoing through him as if projected into his very mind. "Keep your breathing steady but strong. Just relax for a while."

Grissom nodded, following her example. The earth was cool beneath him, slightly damp due to the recent rain. The crinkled, fallen maple leaves brushed against him as they were lifted by the wind; he could feel their edges drawing curves across his open palms. All about them the forest was quiet and cold, watching with curious awe at the bizarre activities. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of geese took flight. He could almost feel the beatings of their wings. Were it not for his gentle teacher, he would have never know the Dark to be used for such things. The word his brother used was scrying—a difficult and time-consuming art. But if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see the birds in flight, the sluggish pursuit of tumulus gray clouds across the horizon, the rolling forest canopy. 

"Now," Neesa continued, "center on something you already know is there—let's try the Cathedral. You know it well enough." She pressed her thumbs into the palms of his hands, helping his power to focus. "See the walls, and the vines that cover them. The arches and corridors, the chapel. The Rood that stands on its roof. The alter."

Again Grissom nodded, but then paused. "How will I know if I am really seeing it, and not simply remembering what I already know?" he asked briskly.

"You will know. Can you see the people there?"

"No. Just the walls."

"Then you haven't reached it yet." She shifted her grip on his hands, and they warmed momentarily as she added her power to his. "Try again. Think of yourself before the altar. Don't try to imagine the Cardinal. See him."

Grissom sighed with slight frustration, but he was determined. He licked his lips and delved once more into the blur of color and sound that was his own mind, picturing as she had said the red carpet against his knees, the gleam of candle-light against brass fastenings. Rainbow mist seemed to fill the chapel due to the colored glass windows and intricate tapestries. Yes, he knew this place well. The garbled, whispering voices of praying townsfolk tugged at his earlobes. 

__

Yes, it's working. I can hear them. I can see it.

Grissom inhaled deeply, strengthened by his modest success. "Now what?"

"What do you see?"

"The inside of the Cathedral. The Rood, the windows, the candles." He licked his lips. "The air tastes like stone. It's warmer there than in here," he added with a bit of a smirk.

Neesa hmphed. "We can practice this in there before the entire city, if you like," she retorted.

"Ah, temper temper." Though the temperature had started to become a problem in these morning sessions of theirs, he understood the necessity of remaining inconspicuous. Practicing within the grounds of the Cathedral or city was too dangerous, and an invitation to be caught. "I can hear the parishioners, but I can't see them," he went on. "They're all behind me."

"Then turn around."

Grissom scowled at her answer; a moment he realized that she was right, and that it was not as difficult a course of action as it seemed. Only a slight manipulation of his power would suffice. With his concentration thus gathered he pushed on the edge of his blurred vision, swinging his gaze over the solid oak pews. In the first row sat an elderly woman and her husband, both dressed in clothes of mourning. Behind them, a teary-eyed mother chided her two young sons as she rocked a sleeping babe. Grissom felt his chest swell with pride—the boys were arguing over a copper one of them had found which the other demanded. He chuckled slightly, remembering such antics he and his own brother had shared. His view continued to shift, sweeping over the rest of the congregation, noting the presence of a few of his comrades dotted among them. 

With a soft squeal the chapel doors were opened, and Grissom diverted his attention to see who was entering. He realized with a bit of surprise that it was the armored form of Captain Guildenstern making his way down the long carpet, his boots clinking softly. He had thought that his leader would have been on duty at this hour. "I wonder what he's doing there?" he mused aloud.

"Who?" questioned his Neesa.

"Captain Guildenstern. He's—"

The cathedral vanished from his sight abruptly, and was replaced with a different setting that Grissom had only seen once: the inside of the Cardinal's personal drawing room. His first instinct was to recoil, but curiosity bade him stay still and attentive. Guildenstern was there, leaning over his master's desk with palms planted firmly. His face was drawn tight and serious. His clipped words only just barely reached Grissom. 

__

"Sir, we have to move tonight."

Grissom's breath caught, and just as quickly as the change had taken place, he was thrown once more into his own body. He shook free of Neesa in order to press a hand to his throbbing skull. _What was that? I shouldn't have been able to see that._ He rubbed his temples, frowning at the ache that had spilt through him so unexpectedly.

"Grissom?" Neesa moved along side him and shook his shoulder gently. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, lowering his hands. All ready the pain was subsiding, much to his relief. "I was trying to do as you'd said, when I saw something. The Cardinal and Captain Guildenstern were conversing."

She frowned, sitting back from him. "That's odd. Were you thinking of them?"

"Not until the captain entered. I didn't intend any of it. What does this mean?"

Neesa considered this very carefully for a moment, only to disappoint him with a helpless shrug. "Perhaps you are stronger in the Dark than we thought. Perhaps it's nothing. There is no certainty in power like this, Grissom. You'd best not think of it." She shivered as a cool breeze washed over them, folding her arms. "But the morning is cold. Have you had enough for today?"

"No," Grissom answered quickly. "We are not expected back so soon—we can stay a while longer." He moved opposite Neesa once more and clasped her hands. "You gave your word to teach me. You owe me, for having hidden yourself for so long."

Neesa sighed, clearly wishing to be back in her warm quarters with a blanket and some ale. But his words were too true, and she was in no mood to receive his barbs. "All right," she conceded, settling herself as well. "A while longer."

No more than an hour later the pair was on their way back toward the familiar gates of the Grand Cathedral. Despite all of Neesa's patient teachings, Grissom was yet unable to perform the scrying spell effectively without her help and intervention. This was not at all uncommon given his relative inexperience in the Dark, as Neesa constantly assured him, but her explanations were wasted. "You all have an advantage over me," he countered stiffly, holding his chin high. "You've known longer. But I refuse to set my standards lower because of that. I should be able to do this."

Neesa sighed, rolling her eyes slightly. "You've always been like this," she muttered as they entered the church grounds. "Always so righteous. That pride of yours'll not hold you forever, Grissom."

"I fail to see why not."

"Fine, then. When you next have an unoccupied morning, we'll try again. Does that suit you?"

Grissom nodded deftly. "Aye, it does. I look forward to it." They continued, quieting as the entrance to the Crimson Blade's compound rose above them. He frowned at the symbol of the Rood that dominated its stone archways. "Neesa," he said carefully, mindful of whomever might be close enough to pick up the bits of their conversation. "What think you...of Captain Guildenstern?"

Neesa's posture became more erect, and her dark eyes darted back and forth a moment to note their surroundings. "I do not follow your meaning."

"I know that you do," he insisted. Naturally his first curiosity after discovering the truth behind their order had been that of their captain, the infallible Romeo Guildenstern. All his memories had been placed on his mind's stage, to be examined and renewed, searching for even the slightest hint that Guildenstern's strength was more than careful conditioning. So far he had yet to reach a conclusion.

Again his comrade dodged his inquiries. "I believe him to be a cunning and capable leader. He has all my respect. Why, what think you?"

Grissom shook his head. He knew it wrong of him to be searching these things out--the Cardinal had forbidden him to speak of it, or question others of his rank, no matter his suspicions. "Very well, then. I'll not ask again. But yes, I agree with you--if any man deserves the trust and admiration of his soldiers, Romeo Guildenstern does." 

The pair turned down another corridor, and both started as they were met suddenly by the very man in question. Grissom caught his breath with a slight wince--how was it that Guildenstern always appeared when his thoughts centered on the man? He found such coincidences a bit unnerving. Though he was somewhat flattered that Guildenstern seemed to favor him among the other commanders, there were times that the intensity in the man's gaze made him shift. He was never certain of what workings guided the actions of so self-assured a soldier.

Upon seeing their approach, Guildenstern lifted his hand to indicated that he intended to speak to them. Both commanders halted and saluted in greeting, a gesture he returned. "Commanders," he acknowledged them with a nod. He then turned toward Neesa. "There's been a change in plans," he informed her, his tone clipped and serious. Grissom frowned, as he was unaware as to what they were speaking of. "The Cardinal has decided that we are to depart tonight. I am sorry to call upon you on a day of rest."

Neesa lifted her chin slightly. "No need for apologies, sir," she replied. "I will have my squad prepared and waiting within the hour."

"Indeed. I thank you for your tolerance of the situation." He nodded once to Grissom. "Commander." Without another word he started past them down the corridor.

Grissom's expression hardened in confusion. He had not heard of any missions being coordinated that would require entire squads of men. When his curious gaze found Neesa, she tried to look discreetly away. _This is what Guildenstern was speaking to the Cardinal about earlier,_ he thought, pursing his lips. _I was granted that knowledge for a reason--'twas not I that sought out the captain._ Though he himself was unsure what motivation spurred him, he turned about suddenly. "Captain Guildenstern."

Guildenstern paused, facing his young soldier once more with curiosity. "Yes, Commander?"

"May I ask, sir, what this is about?"

Neesa shifted beside him, clearly wishing to voice objections. Guildenstern, however, appeared only vaguely surprised. "I am taking several squads down past the southern border," he explained simply. "We believe there are some cultist in hiding there that we hope to flush out."

"Might you have greater success," Grissom questioned boldly, "if my squad were to accompany you?" 

The captain regarded him in thoughtful silence. His gaze, as always, was focused on him with calm seriousness. "Your squad has earned its rest. However," he added with a slight smile, "if you are so eager to kill wolves, Father Grissom, you may accompany us. I spoke just now with your brother--I'm certain he'll not protest your joining his troops for the night."

Grissom nodded, his pride thus renewed. "Thank you, sir."

"Father Duane will complete the details for you. Until this evening." With a stiff nod of his own the captain turned and was on his way.

As soon as Guildenstern was out of range Neesa turned upon her comrade. "And what is this about?" she demanded, though there was almost amusement in her firm tone. "You were not invited."

Grissom, quite pleased with himself, smoothly replied, "One more will hardly steal glory from you and your troops, Commander." He had been fairly certain that Guildenstern would not allow his squad on so quiet-kept a mission--his soldiers were composed primarily of young cadets, a great testimony to the patience and skill of their leader. But to have been invited singularly onto this mission was, in his opinion, a symbol of trust. It made him walk taller as he made his way toward his brother's quarters. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to receive my briefing."

Nessa sighed and shook her head, though she had no more words of protest. "Very well. Until tonight, then."

"Aye. Thank you, for today." He saluted, and with a laugh hurried on his way.

It wasn't until hours later that Grissom began to regret having volunteered to join in the night's witch hunt. The season's early sunset left the air stiff and cold, and it pressed bitterly against the exposed flesh of his nose and cheeks. All about clouds of shivering breath was expelled into the air from the soldiers and their mounts, like a mist. Grissom shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "I am a preacher of men, not beasts," he complained to his brother, tugging on his horse's reigns to keep it on the path. "These creatures are intolerable."

Duane chuckled at his difficulty. "It shouldn't be long now," he assured.

"I most certainly hope so." At last the stubborn beast surrendered, allowing Grissom to lead it down the forest trail. He sighed with relief and took a moment to view the troops, wondering if anyone had seen his trouble. The dozens of soldiers were too absorbed in their own private concerns and conversations to have noticed--save Tieger, who was sniggering beneath a gloved hand. Grissom shot him an annoyed look before diverting his attention. "Damn beast," he muttered giving his mount a tug that the horse ignored.

"Calm down. Save your breath for our prey."

The mention of their mission sobered Grissom quickly enough. His gaze shifted ahead, to the tunnel of evergreens that surrounded his Lordship's thirty-some soldiers. Tieger, Duane, and Neesa each rode at the head of their squad, Grissom alongside his brother, with Captain Guildenstern at the head of the entire procession. The leader of the Blades was in rare form that night, his posture immaculate despite the long ride, his aura of confidence unwavering despite the enemies that lay ahead. This mission was, after all, every bit an excuse for slaughter. 

For some time the Cardinal's legion had been aware of a relatively large encampment of nomads resting just outside the border to their holy city, whom they suspected to be a clan of cultists. It had always been Guildenstern's intention to investigate the lot; however, it was during the compilation of such a design that the entire clan up and migrated south, overnight. The inquiry was abruptly hastened, and so here Grissom was, preparing to deliver judgment.

"As long as they've been here," Duane had explained that afternoon, "our city has suffered. Crime has been higher, I'm sure you've noticed, and reported cultist activities have nearly doubled. There is no doubt--these men are the cause, and it is the Cardinal's decision that they be dealt with." Such was the unwavering justice of the Crimson Blades.

Several meters ahead of them, Guildenstern raised his hand abruptly to signal the halt. The four commanders instantly heeded his command--or as quickly as his mount would allow, in Grissom's case--as did their soldiers, shifting anxiously. The night was still--not so much as an owl could be heard in the usually cacophonous layers of forest. Grissom frowned, his eyes darting among the darkened pines and underbrush. "No moon," he murmured, glancing only briefly at the skies. He crossed himself and awaited his captain's orders.

Guildenstern turned his horse about and guided it toward his waiting subordinates. "I don't like the feel of this," he told them lowly, his eyes reflecting the dulled starlight. "What think you?"

"The smell is wrong," Tieger muttered. Though he was not a man easily intimidated by the prospect of battle, he was clearly on his guard. "We're being watched."

Guildenstern nodded vaguely, turning his gaze on the tree line as well. "I believe you're right." A silent moment passed, the captain's eyes unmoving, his officer's respectfully still. "Commander Tieger," he murmured at last, though he would not face him. "Commander Neesa. I trust your men are well rested and awaiting a fight?"

"Always, Captain," Tieger replied instantly.

"Aye, sir," Neesa followed suit, her voice clipped and attentive.

"Good. Then I will leave this rabble to you. Hold your ground until I return. Commander Duane, Commander Grissom, you and your men will accompany me. Is that understood?"

Guildenstern's four commanders nodded their understanding, though they did not make any attempt to signal their men or ready their weapons. Grissom sat stiffly upon his mount, glancing carefully out of the corner of his eye at the surrounding forests. Though he was not so gifted that he could claim to sense the presence of their enemies as well as Tieger, it unnerved him to hear the forest so unnaturally quiet. _They have surrounded us. It is an ambush, and Guildenstern knows that. He will leave Tieger and Neesa's squads to fend for themselves--but what of the rest of us?_ He cast his gaze down the trail, stretching his senses, but felt nothing. _Where does he intend to take us?_

Guildenstern unsheathed his sword suddenly, holding the blade aloft as he called out to his soldiers. "Those of Father Duane, follow me! For God, and His children!"

The Crimson Blades responded in force, drawing their weapons with a resounding cry that filled the dormant woods. Grissom held his composure, gripping his stave in straining fingers, his eyes sweeping the line of trees. _They will come. _

Almost immediately after Guildenstern's exclamation the first round of arrows were let fly. Grissom swung his stave and managed to knock a pair away that had been aimed for his head; he could almost feel the sting upon his temple where the first would have hit. Thankfully he had no time to contemplate the nearly fatal experience--his captain was already in motion, spurring his silver gelding down the trail. As ordered Duane and his company gave chase, and a moment later Grissom joined them. He had just enough time to see Tieger leading his men into the woods before they were swallowed in the shadows, though the cursing and shouting of the men reached him clearly over the raging of his mount's pounding footfalls. _They can hold their own. Follow the captain._ Gritting his teeth Grissom turned his gaze forward, watching the turned back of Romeo Guildenstern as they thundered away from the battle.

__

Or into battle. These nomads were a community. Grissom urged his horse faster, putting him and his brother at the same pace so that they rode side by side. Duane cast him a quick, pleased smile before retuning his attention forward. _Even if they knew we were coming and prepared an ambush, this cannot be all of them. They would have sent the majority of them ahead._ Grissom pursed his lips with only the slightest distaste. _This truly shall be slaughter._

As Guildenstern and his men had anticipated, not a few short minutes had passed when they came upon the rest of the cult--a caravan of men, women, and children, pulling carts and wagons. At the sight of the Crimson Blades bearing down on them most fled into the forest, abandoning their belongings. Guildenstern wasted no time. He rode hard into the fray, seeking those first that had reached for weapons. There was an elegant kind of morbid beauty in the sight of him, his spine straight and rapier flashing. His men followed without hesitation; with swords brandished they sped down the path, catching the throats of any in reach, paying no mind to the bodies that fell beneath their animals' hooves.

Grissom was among them. It was a strange, haunting feeling, riding along the side of the trail, feeling the sickening crack of a skull against his stave. Despite the terrifyingly cruel truth of their actions there was no chaos in them. The Crimson Blades rode in waves through the folds of panicking cultists, cut them down and trampled them underfoot. A single prayer fell from the commander's lips as he fought down the line; that each soul, having been delivered by God's merciful soldiers, would find their way to their Father. They would be saved. With that truth branded into his mind Grissom had no qualms in his duty, and carried it out with all the practiced precision of his many years training.

At some point he lost sight of his captain amidst the undulating crowd. It mattered not--the bodies were so well packed that he might not have seen the man even if they were side by side. He gave it little notice and continued to fight, until the screams had ended and the only men left were on horseback. He sighed and wiped his sweaty brow, taking a moment to look about the site of their battle. The scene stretched for nearly a hundred meters down the path: splintered wood wagons, scattered trunks and provisions, and bodies, bloodied and broken, littered the cold forest floor. Grissom took it all in with a sense of relieved wonder. It may not have been pretty, but in this mission completed he took his pride.

--

Not long afterwards the squad met again with Tieger and Neesa's troops, gathering to discuss their success. Tieger greeted his fellows with a mighty wave despite the stain of crimson coating his right leg. "So, you bastards faired well, eh?"

"You were hit," Grissom noted with a raised eyebrow, indicating the wound that appeared to have come from an arrow. "Unusual for you, Tieger."

Tieger muttered an oath under his breath, though it was clear through his expression that he thought very little of the insult. They all knew that, by the time they had returned to the Cathedral, it would be little more than a charming memory. "Perhaps so; but I was not the only one, as it seems." 

He waved a hand to indicate their approaching Captain, who was flanked on both sides by young, anxious soldiers. Grissom himself started a bit when he at last laid eyes on the man: though he himself was coated in blood up to his knees, Guildenstern's stain stretched up his thigh, far too dark to have been only from his victims. Though he sat tall and unfaltering in his saddle, the dull starlight reflected palely against his face. 

"Captain," Neesa said sharply, her voice rising in concern. "You are wounded."

"Aye," Guildenstern replied through a grim smile. "'Tis not bad."

"Those black'earts pulled the captain from'is horse," one of the young soldiers explained, looking shocked at his own story. Grissom understood his disbelief well--it would take quite a man to unseat their steady leader. He wondered briefly if the cultists had used some of their black art on him.

Guildenstern lifted a hand before the man could continue. "And I am very thankful for the quick response of my men. But I am well enough, and there is still much to do." His eyes swept over the crowds of soldiers, betraying his exterior with a dulled, pained look. "The men must first be attended to. These bodies will need to be prepared for the priests that come tomorrow to bless them, and--" He paused, closing his eyes briefly as if having suffered from some great pain. "And all their belongings recorded. This needs to be documented, every bit of it."

"Aye, and it shall be," Duane spoke up carefully. "But sir, you are wounded. Allow us to take over the investigation and return to the city."

Neesa was quick to support him. "Please, sir, we care only for your well being."

Guildenstern regarded his commanders thoughtfully, somewhat surprised by their concern. His expression clearly indicated that he found the idea unnecessary, and he had no intention of leaving his men. But Grissom knew better than to assume his captain well--he hardly ever showed any indication of fatigue, and so to see him grimace was testimony enough to the severity of his injury. If the soldiers were to do their job well, they first needed to know that their commanding officer was safe.

"Captain," Grissom said abruptly. "Allow me to escort you back to the Cathedral, and a physician. The place of my comrades is with their men, but I am here of my own. I'm sure our brethren will rest well knowing you are being treated."

Guildenstern's eyebrows lifted slightly as his focus transferred to Grissom alone. He considered the offer carefully under the anxious scrutiny of his commanders. "Very well," he replied finally. "Father Grissom and I will return to the Cardinal, to make our report and request the workers that may take the place of our soldiers. Father Duane, can you manage well enough in my absence?"

"Aye, sir." Duane cast his brother a thankful glance, already reassured. "Well enough."

Guildenstern nodded, moving his horse away from their group. Grissom obediently followed suit. "You have my gratitude," the captain said to his subordinates. "God be with you."

The pair rode away from their kin, quickly putting the battleground behind them. The scent of blood remained thickly at their side, a constant reminder to Grissom to keep their pace swift. Out of the presence of his soldiers Guildenstern's body seemed to slump, if only by a slight degree. It was enough to put Grissom on edge. _I could heal him. It would take some time, as I have not had the chance to practice healing magicks on another, but if his wound is as serious as it seems_.... He ground his teeth as he thought the option through--even suggesting the idea would mean revealing himself and his power. For if the captain was among those of the Cardinal's trusted hands, why had he not yet healed the wound himself? To show himself now could prove dangerous.

__

If only I knew, he thought desperately, urging his mount faster. _But I cannot be careless now. All I can do is earn his trust. Perhaps then, he will tell me himself._

To Next Chapter

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	7. Pierced by the Rose--two

Kiss the Shadow ****

Kiss the Shadow

Chapter 6: Pierced by the Rose--Part two

The ride back to the Cathedral took longer than Grissom had hoped. His mare was as stubborn as ever, having been ridden hard all that evening and night. Guildenstern's silver gelding was no better off; the scent of its master's blood was making it skittish. Neither had thought at the time to bring with them a torch, either; the forest trail stretched out ahead of them like the entrance to a mountain cave, cold and silent. Despite these hindrances Guildenstern made no sound of complaint or urgency. Grissom had to admit that he was impressed and relieved by his captain's composure—certainly he would not have been so calm with a similar injury. He said nothing, however, focusing only on the path.

When at last the pair broke out of the forest overlooking Icili's slumbering form, Grissom sighed openly in relief. "Almost there," he murmured, turning his head to check on his companion. "How are you fairing, sir?"

"Well enough," Guildenstern replied. Though his palm was pressed tightly to his wounded side, his face was unmoved. "Let us make haste."

"Of course." _He hurts more than even I know._ The commander urged his horse onward, down the road that would take them into the city.

By the time the pair had entered the Crimson Blade's compound, the hour had progressed so late into night that the halls were deserted. Grissom pursed his lips as he hastily delivered their mounts to the stables, then joined his captain at the barrack entrance. "Can you make it as far as your quarters unaided?" he asked, glancing about in hopes of finding another soldier that he could send to fetch the physician. "I will send for Sir Louress, then make the proper reports."

But when he looked for his captain's approval, he found the man leaning heavily against the stone entranceway, his eyes closed as he attempted to recover from a shortness of breath. The muscles along his jaw were drawn tight and pained. Fresh blood slid lazily over his already soiled fingers.

__

Dear God. Grissom suppressed a shudder. _He could die from a wound that deep._ Doing his best to hide his trepidation, he approached swiftly and pulled Guildenstern's arm over his shoulders. "I'll accompany you," he said briskly, pulling the man away from the wall.

Guildenstern grumbled a protest, pushing away from him. "There's no need," he assured, walking a few steps on his own. His gait was uncertain and halting. "You must make our report, and contact the workers—" He broke off suddenly as his footing betrayed him. Were it not for Grissom's quick reaction, he surely would have tumbled to the floor.

"Aye, it shall all be done soon enough." Again Grissom accepted nearly all of Guildenstern's weight against him, guiding him down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed eerily across the stone. "But at present my only concern is for you, Captain. Please, do not injure yourself further."

Guildenstern sighed heavily, relaxing against his commander's aid. There was pain in that sound, and a resignation in his lethargic movements. For a moment Grissom was hit by an inappropriate feeling of pride in knowing that he was being trusted and depended on. Though it was disturbing to see the strongest of them reduced to such a state, it was also oddly comforting. _He is not so far above us after all. He is one of us, and he trusts me. God, have mercy._

As soon as they entered Guildenstern's quarters Grissom eased his captain down into a sturdy wooden chair near the wall. He fell into it easily, expelling a low breath around a grunt of pain. From there Grissom hesitated. Though he should have left immediately to rouse the physician, the pale leather of Guildenstern's cheeks and the shallowness of his breath convinced him not to leave the man alone. Quickly he set upon the straps holding his armored chest plate. "Lie still, if you would," he instructed through his teeth. "Do you keep bandages in your room?"

"Aye. In the drawer, near the bed." Guildenstern grimaced, easing him away from the tangle of bronze clasps. "I can manage this. Fetch the cloth."

Grissom complied, anxiety making hands fumble at the drawer handles. A moment later he returned with a fistful of clean white fabric, and helped remove the chest armor. Whoever had committed this ungodly act had managed to slip a dagger just underneath its lowest lip. Trying to ignore the blood slicking his fingers as he worked, he unfastened the captain's thick leather belts and lifted his undershirt, thus revealing the wound at last.

Grissom sucked his breath in sharply at the sight. The wound carved just below his left ribs had been, as he suspected, created by a dagger - three inches wide and very deep, judging by the amount of blood. For a moment he knelt before it, frozen by his own panic, hands hovering indecisively over the torn flesh. "Sir Guildenstern…" he murmured, reaching hesitantly forward and then recoiling. He lifted his gaze fearfully, gazing upon his captain's sunken countenance. The air passing through his lips was short and weak.

__

Dear God…he will die, like this. Grissom licked his lips, reaching gingerly once more for the injury, pressing his palm flat against its mouth. _I cannot let that happen. Even if it means endangering my own life_…_I pray you, make me not wrong._

Grissom closed his eyes, concentrating on the parted flesh beneath his trembling fingers. The spell fell softly from his lips—he hoped that, in his labored condition, Guildenstern would not notice. At least not until he had been healed. His power was tentative, uncertain, but his intentions were pure and within a few short minutes he could feel the skin warming. Gradually the incision began to knit together; the flow of blood slowed and then stopped, calming the soldier so that he could continue with greater security.

Guildenstern sighed contentedly. _Thank God. _Grissom concentrated his power, preparing another spell to deepen the effects of the first, when suddenly the captain's eyelids flew open, and his hand snapped about Grissom's poised wrist. Grissom started and fell still as a harsh, blue glare descended upon him. When the man spoke, his voice was clipped and lethal. "Father Grissom. What are you doing?"

Grissom gulped as a cold chill ran up his spine. Guildenstern's eyes held him transfixed, not unlike one of the cultists from that night, turning to find themselves beneath the commander's stave. "I…sir, you are wounded…I…."

Guildenstern continue to stare at him, the venom in his face unwavering. "Do you know what it is you do, commander?" There was none of the casual humor in his voice to which Grissom had become accustomed, not even the formal trust between officers. "These are Dark arts with which you meddle."

"Yes, I…." He tried to keep his will firm—he had been right to do this thing. "I am aware of that. I thought only…only to help you, sir."

"Help me." Guildenstern's eyebrow lifted slightly with cold condescension. "That is not the issue needed to be discussed." 

Grissom watched with stunned confusion as Guildenstern lifted his free hand, pressing it over his wounded side. His lips moved subtly with some spell; with a flash of dull light and gentle heat, the gash sealed itself, both lips of ragged flesh pressed into a smooth surface once more. Already the color was returning to Guildenstern's face, though it still remained chiseled and hard. _So, he knew_, Grissom thought, though the expression of disappointment his leader bore quashed any feeling of relief that might have accompanied that realization. _He has known of these arts._

"Sir," Grissom started, uneasily aware that his wrist was still captured in that crushing grip. "I…was not aware that you also knew of these practices."

Guildenstern snorted in chiding amusement. "As I assumed," he replied crisply. "That being the case, you should not have revealed yourself to me."

"My intention was only to help you," Grissom said in swift defense. "What does it matter now? You are well, and—"

The gloved fingers dug savagely into the underside of Grissom's wrist, forcing him to draw a swift gasp. "It matters. Everything matters, Father Grissom. This is a dangerous game we have been drawn into, and we cannot afford even the smallest of errors. What if you had revealed yourself to me, only to have me betray you?"

"But—but you could have died!" Grissom tugged on his hand, trying to recoil. "What would have become of our order then?"

Guildenstern regarded him sternly, unimpassioned. "I may have, though I doubt it. But it would be a small price, to keep this secret buried."

The commander shook his head, disbelieving of what he was hearing. A moment ago his leader had been pale and shaking, gripped by the icy glare of death—had his injury been so easily and completely mended? He felt suddenly like a fool, kneeling before the man with only childish reasoning to defend himself. _Everyone is always one step ahead of me. He could have healed himself at any time, but chose not to, for the sake of remaining hidden._ "Is it worth that much to you?" he asked, subdued. "You were with me alone—was it worth dying for, to keep one officer from seeing the truth? My own brother—"

"Made a decision he wasn't authorized to make," Guildenstern interrupted. "And was lucky, that you took so well to our order's secret. The careless tongue of one man can bring a painful death to us all, Father Grissom. Yes, it is worth dying for the fate of my men."

Grissom lowered his head, shame rising up in place of his confusion. "Then you have known for quite some time," he murmured distantly. His memories of this man rose once more, displayed across his dazed sight, giving explanation and reason to the many examples of his captain's extraordinary fortitude. "It is I alone that was not trusted enough to be informed."

Guildenstern's grip softened, though he did not yet release his younger officer. "It is not that I did not trust you well enough, Grissom," he spoke evenly, with the sincerity that was usual to his voice. "You are one of my most valued officers. And, truthfully, I am relieved that this accident did occur." When Grissom raised his eyes inquisitively, he explained. "Now I know that I can trust you more completely than even before."

The commander blinked, feeling the return of his pride at those simple words. He grinned slightly; at last he recognized the brotherly gleam in Guildenstern's clear eyes. "Thank you, sir. Though I have not known long what abilities I hold. I have much to learn."

"Of course. Perhaps that is something I can aid you with."

Grissom straightened—the opportunity to train his magick against Captain Guildenstern? If the man's recent display was any indication of what he was capable of, then certainly he could not refuse such an offer. He wanted never to be left behind by his fellows again. "I would be honored."

The captain nodded, though he seemed somewhat distracted from the subject. His eyes were focused and intense on his officer's face, as if searching. After a silent moment they calmed once more, and a faint grin spread to the corners of his lips. "Are you curious?" he asked, sounding amused.

"Curious, sir?" he echoed, bewildered.

"You now know that I have the powers of the Dark. Are you not curious as to how powerful I am?"

Grissom took his next breath slowly, wondering at his captain's intentions. Naturally he was—if Guildenstern could heal a lethal stab wound with a wave of his hand, what other powers were at his command? There was no way to know without demonstration. If Grissom was to come to understand his own power, did it not make sense to have some model to aspire to?

"Yes, sir," he answered at last, hiding the excitement he felt with a mask of calm indifference. "I am curious."

Guildenstern's grin deepened as he at last released Grissom's wrist so that he could remove his gloves and shoulder armor. His movements were slow and deliberate, making his company impatient. But the young officer held his voice still. When he had finished he offered his hand. "Take it."

Grissom complied eagerly, not knowing what to expect. Guildenstern looked calm; his eyes were shut loosely, his lips still curled and breath deep as if enjoying a pleasant dream. The younger man was about to question when he a chill ran up the length of his arm. The sensation was at first eerie, like the decent of a shadow over him. It moved in undulating currents over his skin, raising the hairs on his neck. But as the stream of power seeped deeper into him it brought with it a more familiar feeling: the shifting, anxious electricity that usually accompanied his using in the Dark. He remembered this from when Duane had healed his arm, experiencing the calming warmth of another spirit. He found it somewhat odd, however, that he could tell the difference between their two powers. Guildenstern's touch was more controlled, and yet brighter, like the stern wall of a river dam. 

Grissom licked his lips, allowing his eyes also to shut. There was something comforting and intimate about this bizarre contact of minds. _This cannot be all of it,_ he reasoned, waiting for Guildenstern's demonstration to continue. _I know he is more powerful than this._

Guildenstern's hand tightened around his, as if having sensed his very thoughts. Without warning the barrier was stripped away, and Grissom gasped, wilting under the unexpected pressure. His essence was fiery and striking, like lightning, and it swept over him in waves. Though he knew his captain to be without equal, the raw, swirling energy was almost too much for him. _Dear God, is this what true power feels like? I had no idea_.... He gulped, trying to focus his mind even as a tremor ran through him.

Guildenstern's dull chuckle reached his ears. "Well, Commander?" he asked smugly. "What think you of real power?"

"I...." But Grissom could not find his voice to finish, so entwined in the intoxicating threads. He was only barely aware of his hand tightening around Guildenstern's, of the shortness of his breath. His senses were confused by the intensity of stimuli being poured upon him. 

"It's marvelous, isn't it?" the thick voice sounded again, somehow closer this time. "It's almost addicting. But all I need to do is call upon it, and it is there, just beneath the surface. Someday you, too, shall experience it as I have."

Two gentle fingertips pressed against the side of Grissom's neck, tracing the line of his veins--that simple contact sent his heart leaping into his throat, so that he nearly choked on it. His body shook like a frightened child huddled in the warm arms of a caring mother. Was this what he'd sought all along, this fierce exhilaration? He felt as if each of his limbs were charged with pure light, and yet detached from the rest of him; as if he were part of the sun drifting over the horizon. 

Too soon Guildenstern began to withdraw, his power ebbing tide-like into his weary body. When Grissom became aware of this slow retreat his own spirit seemed to lament, reaching back to him. It was not enough--surely his captain had more to show him. He was full of energy now, with more strength and confidence than he ever remembered, and was loathe to allow that perfect adrenaline to escape him. He was already addicted. _Dear bright God, how did I ever feel pride until now? I have been a child, ignorant and foolish. But this--this power--_

The incident had passed--Guildenstern's power had faded, leaving only the cold stale air that still reeked of blood. Grissom's senses returned gradually to their proper order. His skin was first to regain itself, drawn into strict reality by the feel of warm cloth beneath his hands and forehead. The scent of blood, sweat, and a unique, dull fragrance mixed in his nostrils. _He smells like...the old spice cabinet. Like cloves and old ginger._ What a strange thought that was, but it lingered in the back of his mind, same as the aroma itself. 

Slowly it dawned on Grissom that he shouldn't have been close enough to know what his captain smelled like. With a jolt his senses focused once more. Guildenstern was no longer seated in the old armchair, but kneeling just before him. They were so close that Grissom's palms and face were pressed against his chest; he moved slightly with each intake of the man's breath. _When did I...what is going on?_ His body had acted without him, following the withdrawal of Guildenstern's power back to its source, searching for it. And now that he was here he had no idea what action to take, made immobile by his own shame and confusion. He dared not even to breathe, trapped there.

"It would seem," Guildenstern murmured thoughtfully, his words drifting across Grissom's temple, "that power is equally alluring to all men."

"Sir, I...." Grissom gulped and started to pull away, but was stopped when a pair of hands closed on his shoulders, holding him in place.

"A moment, if you would, Grissom. I am a bit unsteady at present."

__

As am I. Grissom shifted, growing anxious from the close quarters they shared. It was embarrassing enough that his insides were twisting, wanting to feel that power again. But when he paid closer attention he found that Guildenstern was indeed somewhat unstable, leaning heavily on him for support. _He must be tired. Exposing all that power for my benefit_.... "Sir," he inquired. "Are you all right?"

"Aye. Merely a bit winded." His hands moved down Grissom's shoulders to his upper arms. "Just stay with me a moment more, and I will be all right."

Grissom nodded faintly, unsure if he could have moved had it been required of him. It was almost...satisfying...being depended upon this way. Even something as simple as the warmth of another human body gave him a feeling of peace, after all the filth that had tainted them that night. He could not lie to himself and find their situation not without discomfort--his pride never allowed him to seek this close consolation, especially from another man--but for a moment it did not matter.

Some time had passed before Guildenstern spoke again. "Grissom. Do you...trust me?"

Grissom was caught somewhat off guard by the question, and frowned. "Of course, sir," he answered at once. "You are my captain...my comrade."

"Good. You see, I need someone I can trust, Grissom." His right hand began to move once more, back to his shoulder, sliding across the back of his neck. He stiffened at the unexpected sincerity in that touch. "There are a mere handful of us that can use the Dark--fewer even than I am truly aware of. Sometimes, it's important that I know who I can trust completely in these matters."

"Of course. I understand." Grissom bit at the inside of his lip, his shoulders creeping up as Guildenstern's thumb kneaded gently into the base of his skull. _What is this?_ He tried to pull away but was held fast. "S-Sir?"

"Yes, Grissom?" Guildenstern turned his head until his lips were just beside his temple, so close that the young commander could feel them being twisted with a smile. 

__

This...this is not right. He was on edge now, suddenly aware of the man's every breath and movement. _What is he doing?_ He did not try to pull away, however, still trapped by the memory of his master's power. He could not deny that he wanted that feeling once more--the thrill of having fire at his fingertips, such divine strength. There was no such energy in himself; he stayed, as if drawn to a flame.

Guildenstern hummed a low monotone in his ear, alerting him to the fact that he had lain silent for some time. "Are you all right, Grissom? You are not your proud self."

"Forgive me, sir. I am...preoccupied."

"Of course." His head tilted, with the slightest of movements pressing his lips to the space of flesh beneath Grissom's ear.

At last Grissom found the strength to retreat, breaking out of his hold as he tumbled backwards. He hadn't expected that at all--nor the shiver that coursed down his spine at the contact. _Oh God, what was that?_ He scrambled to his feet and took a step back, recalling his breath. "Sir--Sir Guildenstern," he stuttered ungracefully. "What are you--"

"I'm sorry if I startled you." Guildenstern followed his actions, gathering himself to his full height as he approached. There was an odd gleam in his eyes unlike anything Grissom had seen before--piercing, predatory. He backed away on impulse. "Here now. And you said you trusted me."

"I do, sir," Grissom said, wishing there was greater strength in his voice. He continued to fall back, until he met the stone wall. _Damn_. "I just didn't expect this...." He forced himself to smile questioningly. "...this interest, sir."

"You've already learned a great deal about me this evening. I doubt a few more surprises will hurt much." Guildenstern stopped just before him, fixing him with that sharpened gaze. Despite all his training Grissom couldn't help but shudder a bit beneath it. He looked like a wolf, gazing at him from within the border of a darkened forest. The captain lifted his hand, ever so faintly tracing the curve of Grissom's jaw; within that touch was contained the memory of their recent experience, and Grissom could not help but welcome it against him. _Dear God, when did I become this frail?_

"You are loyal, are you not?" Guildenstern moved closer, encouraged by the commander's acceptance. His fingers drifted below Grissom's chin, lifting it slightly.

"Always. To God, to our Order...." He gulped, pressing his back into the cold stone. "I thought you knew that well enough."

Guildenstern laughed, so that his breath spilled like poisoned spiders over the exposed flesh of Grissom's throat. "Of course, of course. But I seek a different loyalty, Grissom. Something deeper." He edged closer, one hand set firmly on either side of his prey. "_I_ am the Order. I am its strength and its life, and you know that. I would that you be loyal to _me_."

Grissom's sight became unfocused, trapped there between the stone and warm body, struggling to make sense of what was happening. It had been a long time since he'd allowed anyone this close to him, to touch him in this way. After all that his captain had offered him that night, with his trust, his honesty--his very soul--he was prepared to deprive him of nothing. "I am," he replied breathlessly. "You have always had me."

"Good." Again his warm lips found tender skin, and this time Grissom did not attempt to pull away. He stayed, remaining very still, as if waiting for the man's power to invade upon his senses once more. Hoping for it. But there was only a kiss, soft and moist, reminding his weary body of many cold-bedded nights. It rose in him a twisting, mind-numbing anxiety. A moment ago they had been joined in one mind, like a pair of lovers from a fairy tale. Such intimacy he had never known, and was desperate to feel it again.

Guildenstern kissed him again, more deeply, pressing their bodies tight as if he too were seeking some greater satisfaction than this simple affection. Grissom welcomed him closer, wrapping his arms about his shoulders, ignoring his mind's baffled warnings. It was madness, to desire a man this way. To revel in the sensation of his own fluttering heart--to yearn for a taste of perfection once more. But be it folly, Grissom did not care. He could not even bring himself to beg forgiveness for the sins he committed, as he felt no guilt in them. He was only...searching.

"You have always been a good soldier," Guildenstern murmured huskily, smiling against the curve of his neck. His hands grew bold, moving over the folds of Grissom's tunic, massaging the muscles in his chest and torso. "Do you remember that morn in the garden, where you found me?"

"Yes," Grissom breathed, disoriented, biting back any other sounds from borrowing his voice as he shifted beneath those rough hands. They made him tremble, even through the layers of thick leather and cotton. "I remember."

He grinned, continuing his firm caress. "You told me a charming story then, Grissom. Of your...'experience' on the eve of your Ordainment."

"Yes. I remember...."

"Could you tell me again," he whispered into his ear, "what that felt like?"

Grissom licked his lips, finding it difficult to center his mind on any sensible topic at the moment. But the memory his captain sought was a particularly strong one, and he was able to recall that eve with its entire splendor quickly enough. "It was...exhilarating," he said, closing his eyes to better remember. "Like a touch from God. It was...white, and warm, like--"

Grissom fell silent, his eyes snapping wide when he realized what he was about to say. His hands were suddenly numb. _No. No, what is he saying? _But the words fell from him, barely carried by his breath, shuddering. "...Like when you touched me, just now."

Guildenstern chuckled softly; the sound of it made his stomach twist with nausea. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Just like the touch of the Dark."

"No...." Grissom felt his body sag, his gaze swimming. "No, I won't believe that--"

"The Cardinal is a very intelligent and exacting man, Grissom," the captain went on, never leaving more than inches between his eager lips and his subordinate's ear. "He knows that faith is the most powerful thing a man can have, and he uses that to his advantage. He tests all his Ordained in such a way, to see if they will feel. To bind them to him. As he bound you."

Grissom could not speak for shock. He continued to grip Guildenstern's shoulders, as his legs were weak and unwilling to support him after what he'd been told. For years he had drawn from that brief, inspiring experience. He had told the story with pride and dignity, earning respect from his soldiers, even his friends. His faith was his strength--the strength that had allowed him to pray at the bedside of Lady Wellerune, to accept the Dark as his tool, to use it. To slay ungodly men and send their souls to Heaven. All these things took origin in that one belief, that he was one of God's chosen blades. He was special; he was touched.

"Guildenstern...." He had nothing to say, pale and stricken as he was. He wanted to deny the cruel words even as he saw the truth in them; even as he remembered the imprint of Guildenstern's magick against his heart. _My God...my Lord, what does this mean? What has he done to me?_

They were moving. Grissom could not bring himself to register this fact, nor the gentle words Guildenstern was spilling into his ear. "There is no need to despair...still have your faith...should know the truth." They faded in and out of his understanding, until his calves knocked the edge of the bed. He stumbled a bit, and sat down awkwardly. He lifted his gaze. "Guildenstern...Captain...?" 

"It's all right, Grissom," the knight assured him, seating himself beside him and gently easing him back. "There's no need to be upset. I did not tell you these things so that you would regret them."

"I know." Grissom allowed himself to be prodded, settling against the stiff mattress. _It doesn't matter what he does to me. I don't care._ Everything seemed to be happening so quickly around him, and he welcomed it, trying to forget what he had just learned. Later...when he had calmed, had come to understand this reality better...he would accept or question. Presently he was too distraught and confused to want to argue, made sick by the stench of blood on his garments. _If I was not chosen, what right did I have to kill those people? Women and children_....

Guildenstern settled his weight over the young soldier, returning his attention to the soft taste of his throat, working his hands beneath the stained tunic. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly, though the tone of his voice indicated he had no intentions of doing as such.

"No," Grissom answered, turning his head to allow the man's mouth more freedom. "Whatever...lies I have believed, I am still yours, am I not? I am loyal to you. I trust you."

"With your life?" He began to slip the stiff layers of fabric over Grissom's head, which he encouraged, and tossed the garment aside carelessly. His hands sought out taunt flesh, the subtle indents of ribs, the hollow just above his hips. They were warm, and strong, and stole away Grissom's every desire to contemplate what was happening. For a moment he was alerted to a touch of metal against his bare chest--his silver rood, lying heavily over his heart. With a flash of childish retaliation he snatched the pendant and ripped it from his neck, snapping the chain as he flung it thoughtlessly to the other side of the room.

He then returned his gaze to Guildenstern, his eyes hardened and sure. "With my life." _If I do not have God's favor, then let me have his._ Grissom pulled Guildenstern down to him. "With all that I am--my very soul, should you have need of it."

Guildenstern regarded him silently a moment, surprised by his commander's sudden change of demeanor, but quickly accepting. "Your very soul," he repeated, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes began to gleam anew, and a cold smirk marred his handsome features. "Are you sure?"

There was danger in the tone of his silk voice, though Grissom was in no mood to heed the warning. He nodded, wanting nothing more than to hide beneath this man, his liquid hands and fiery mouth; to lose himself in whatever sin he could, as he felt betrayed and lost. "Yes. You have my word."

"Good." Guildenstern took hold of his wrists suddenly, pinning them to the bed with strength he should not have had after so eventful a night. The kiss placed upon Grissom's throat was hot and hungry. Grissom wriggled, unexpecting of such a forceful advance, though a moment later he had forgotten his qualms. He arched into that contact, sighing quietly. And as he'd hoped Guildenstern opened himself once more, granting Grissom the flavor of his fiery spirit, lifting his voice in a soft moan.

It started so gradually, so carefully, that Grissom did not notice at first that his limbs were growing stiff and immobile. He was too caught up in the mixing of their power, and brushed his fatigue off easily as merely being a fault of the late hour. But when his fingertips numbed he caught his breath, frowning up at the ceiling. His toes shared a similar feeling, and it was creeping up into his ankles. _What the hell?_ "Guildenstern...?"

"You said you would offer me your very soul," Guildenstern whispered harshly against his ear. His voice tore at him coldly, not unlike the tip of his rapier. "I intend to make full use of your offer."

The cold rose swiftly up through Grissom's legs, as if his blood were being leeched from him. He tried to thrash, panic getting the better of him, but by then it was too late--Guildenstern's grip on him was by now too powerful. No--the captain could never have been this strong. Something was seeping into the young officer, pulling at the little power he had been able to gather for himself through the past weeks of training. He tried to bind it in--this was his precious strength that he had fought hard to obtain, and yet it left him as easily as he had thrown the rood away a moment before. Guildenstern was stealing his very essence from him.

But worse than the terrifying feeling of being extracted, drained, was the even stronger feel of their energies still entwined. Grissom could feel his spirit curling inside the captain, swirling like aged wine, and the lifting of pleasure at the sensation of being filled. Or perhaps it was his own pleasure, which frightened him all the more. He struggled against Guildenstern's hold, though he was quickly losing the feeling in his arms as well. "This...Guildenstern, you...."

"Fear not, young Grissom," Guildenstern soothed between tender kisses to his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks. "Hush now, and dream your peaceful dreams. Do not be afraid."

"Damn you...." A sound of pain was choked from Grissom's throat, caught between a sob of frustration and an enraptured moan. _Damn him, damn him!_ In desperation he turned his pleas toward the Heavens, grieving how foolishly he had condemned his Lord a few short minutes ago. _God, dear God, what is he doing to me? I beg you, mercy_....

The darkness rose up around him, thick and black, smothering his dulled and writhing senses. Guildenstern was all about him--the pressure of his body, the warmth of his mouth, the scent of cloves and old ginger all pressed into him, weakening his resolve. _God, please_....

And a voice, echoing softly against his straining ears in a sweet lullaby, as if coaxing his shattered senses into the deepest sleep he had ever known.

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